The Education of Sansa Stark
by jlcleaumus
Summary: Robert Baratheon was killed during the Battle of the Trident. Yet the Targaryens lost the war nevertheless. A reluctant Eddard Stark is crowned King of all Westeros, but enemies far and wide plot the destruction of his family and dynasty. Beloved daughter, the young Princess Sansa Stark, finds herself in peril when the wraiths of the Iron Throne return to claim their due.
1. Prologue: Hour of the Wolf

**The Wolf King: Year 281**

Eddard Stark, so recently made the new Lord of Winterfell through the murders of his father and elder brother, did not believe in the Gods of his southron wife, nor their southern hells. But were he a follower of the Seven, on this day he would believe that war, here in this world, was worse than any of the hells any God could conjure up, north or south of Moat Cailin.

"Your Grace." All the lords of all the realm, those who'd survived this terrible rebellion, now bowed before him in the gilded castle of a ruined city, innocents, women, and children murdered in the name of his and Robert's war. And yet he'd be rewarded with a crown he'd never wanted, this boy, this second son from the land of winter and snow.

_I'm a southron. Moreso than father, or Brandon, or Benjen. I've lived more days than they, more years than all of them combined, in the South, in the Eyrie. This is the price I pay, for forgetting my home, the lands of my ancestors._

"You shouldn't be kneeling before me," he cried vainly, hearing his own voice emerge as but a whimper, echoing pathetically against the walls the throne room built by the dragonlords of hundreds of years before, and now occupied by this newly crowned wolf king of the Seven Kingdoms. "This should have been Robert's crown."

"Robert Baratheon's dead, Your Grace." What folly was this, or farce, that the man whom Ned has known as a second father would now kneel before him and not even be allowed to address him by his own name?

"Then crown his brother," Ned protested, though in his heart of hearts he knew just how futile his efforts were. "I've heard the maesters say it, House Baratheon has a claim to the throne, they have in them the blood of the dragon. Stannis won this war as much as I, he held Storm's End against the armies of the south..."

"And you rallied Robert's army to victory at the Trident," Jon Arryn countered, "after Robert fell. You relieved Storm's End against the Tyrell host, after King's Landing...was taken."

"After the bannermen of the Westerlands destroyed the city, in my name," Ned cursed. He looked towards Stannis, this young, glum brother of Robert's, yet Ned knew the man had a heart of steel, regardless of his age, because of all the suffering he'd endured this last war. Did he resent his coronation, he wondered? Did Stannis covet this throne for himself? If he did, then Ned would happily give it to him, if only in Robert's memory...if only the lords of the realm would let him.

"We fought a rebellion to free the Seven Kingdoms from the Targaryen tyranny, Your Grace..." another voice, one belonging to a stranger, echoed through the hall. Ned turned to see Tywin Lannister, the butcher of King's Landing, kneeling obsequiously before him. "I mean no offense to your blood, Lord Stannis, but the time has come to start anew from the history we've known the last hundreds of years, good or ill."

_Except I know you argued to crown Stannis,_ Ned thought, _if only so your daughter could marry and become his Queen._

"The war was Robert's," Hoster Tully proclaimed, newly arrived at the capital, and in the company of his wife...another stranger, barely less so than men like Tywin Lannister, "because he'd lost his beloved, his betrothed. Yet, Your Grace, the war was yours also, you lost your sister, your brother, your father...few suffered more than Your Grace because of Aerys's madness..."

_Queen Catelyn_, Ned thought, whom he'd known all of one night...and who now bore in her belly his son, his heir...the new Crown Prince...or Princess, of the Seven Kingdoms.

"The people suffered," Ned argued. "The smallfolk, the ladies to Queen Rhaella, the servants in Duskendale, who had nothing to do with their lord's rebellions..."

How often the people always suffered through all the wars, because of the whims of highborn such as he, since the beginning of time, when his ancestors had sailed with the First Men westward?

"It makes no matter," Jon replied. "You suffered, the realm suffered with you. Then you freed the realm from tyranny, you _ended_ their suffering, and now they see in you their rightful King!"

_They care not who was to blame for the wars that savage their land, only that it's over._

He'd suspected this result when he'd left King's Landing, first for Storm's End, then to Dorne. Ned hoped that his absence would mean that far more powerful men than he...far more deserving men than he, would take the crown for themselves in his absence, so that all he had to do upon his return was the bend the knee, then ride straight home for Winterfell, and never leave again. Even if it meant bending the knee to a man such as Tywin Lannister. Ned'd argued the previous night with Jon, for the Lord of the Eyrie to take the throne in his place. Jon Arryn had refused, as he did now, because of who had suffered more at the hands of the Targaryens.

_"Suffering doesn't make a King!"_

_"It should," Jon argued back. "A king should know pain, so that he may rule justly, and seek to lessen it for his people!"_

There'd been the question of succession too. Despite the recent massacres, Ned's family was aplenty, relatively speaking between the two, with a young child soon to be born, the Gods be just. Jon Arryn had just married his third wife who, a modest count of moons into their new marriage, remained childless, same as his last two. He'd relied upon cousins and nephews to inherit the Eyrie and, in the meantime, treated Ned and Robert like the sons he'd never had, precious years Ned would always treasure. But all that Arryn blood died in this war too, leaving any dynasty House Arryn brought to the Iron Throne a short one, unless the Gods could finally grant him a son by some miracle. It was no sure thing. He was no sure thing either, but Cat _was_ pregnant, and Gods forbid the worst happen, he young enough to keep trying.

"You are my King," he heard Tywin proclaiming below him, below this Iron Throne of his, "now and forever."

"Am I?"

All the lords nodded their heads and raised their swords at his seemingly expectant words, not just Tywin Lannister.

"Tywin Lannister, you betrayed your last King and butchered the people of King's Landing. Jaime Lannister, you murdered the King you were sworn to protect."

"A tyrant," Tywin replied, eyes widening in shock. Did he think he could escape justice so easily, Ned wondered. "It was war."

Did he believe him a boy, _and_ a fool?

"Elia Martell did not make war on me. Rhaegar's children did not make war on me."

Standing far behind his father, Jaime Lannister leaned rather nonchalantly against a wall to the side of the throne room. _He's just a child,_ Ned thought. _Yet, so am I, so was Lyanna, so were even more so the children his father ordered murdered. Does he not care, what he did, what his family's banners did? Is he such an awful man already, despite his young age?_

"Your Grace," the young Lord of Highgarden protested from a distant corner, "it was Ser Gregor Clegane and Ser Amory Lorch who were responsible for the deaths of the Prince and Princesses..."

"And they will be punished for their crimes," Ned proclaimed. If they must make him king, then so he'd reign, so he'd see to justice in the land. "I sentence them to die, by my sword, before the sun sets tonight." The young wolf turned to the lion of the west, the former Hand to the king he'd just betrayed, the man his son murdered while sitting upon the very throne he sat in now. "Along with their liege lord."

"Your Grace!"

It was not just Tywin who suddenly appeared terrified, but all the men gathered before him, even the ones who'd fought by his side at the Trident.

"Ned," Jon cried out in protest, finally forgetting his new title, though not in the way Ned would have liked him to. "I condemn what happened here, what happened to Rhaegar's wife and children...but for men to be punished for the actions of their bannermen..."

"Jon Arryn," Ned interrupted him, the thought once unthinkable during his childhood. "I name you my Hand."

This caught the man dead in his tracks. "Your Grace, it's an honor I cannot be worthy of."

"But it's an honor you'll _keep_ nevertheless. You'll preside over Tywin Lannister's trial. Question whomever you need, including Clegane and Lorch. They will die all the same, but let them die salvaging _some_ honor at least, to speak the truth of the matter before they die, and do one last deed worthy of their titles."

Jon bowed, and Tywin snarled like a lion cornered.

The new King continued. "There's no question your son Jaime slew King Aerys, an unarmed man. He will join the Night's Watch. As will you, Lord Tywin...if my Hand finds you guilty, and you wish to keep your head."

Already, knights and new whitecloaks alike approached the Lord of Casterly Rock, taking hold of the man many once claimed the most powerful in all seven kingdoms, even while Aerys lived. They'd already argued this the last night, he and Jon and Hoster, after it'd became clear that they would not relent in their efforts to place a crown upon his head, Ned adamant that Tywin face justice, Jon and Hoster not wishing to antagonize the richest kingdom in the realm by killing their lord after he'd raised their banners to their cause.

"Is there anything else, Your Grace?"

Mace Tyrell, the young Warden of the South, a stout, red faced young man who'd yet come so close to defeating Stannis and taking Storm's End, asked.

"No," Ned replied, shaking his head and stepping away from his ill gotten throne without another word.

"There's a coronation to attend to," Mace protested, suddenly eager to win the approval of his new King, his loyalty surrendered as easily as his banners below the castle Robert had been born in.

"Then my lords will attend to such matters," the King answered. "I have a wife and a nephew to attend to."

* * *

**The Wolf King: Year 297**

In the last moments of his life, as he swung his sword again and again helplessly outnumbered on a stormy day in a strange castle, Eddard of House Stark, First of his Name, the Just King so they called him, thought of his wife and children. Beside him fought his eldest son and heir, the boy they called the Young Wolf, Prince Robb, as good and valiant a Prince the realm had ever seen, so they told him, and sincerely so, Ned believed...and who would die young, years younger than even the man Ned named him after.

"Father!"

He watched Robb's face twist in anguish. The man who'd just struck his sword through his son's side had just been vanquished, half his skull knocked cleanly off by Jory Cassel, yet that did not change their odds, or the newest wound struck through his eldest child, one of many he'd taken during this battle. The last or close to it, Ned knew in his heart.

"Robb," the King cried out. "Forgive me, I failed you."

In hindsight, he should've known better the moment they took Pyke with barely a half day's battle, the Ironborn giving nary a fight after their walls had been battered down through half a fortnight of siege. Ned knew something was wrong the moment they told him the man claiming to be Balon Greyjoy was not, but rather just an old fisherman who'd served his self-proclaimed king in his kitchens. Hearing that most of the Greyjoy rebels had retreated to Pebbleton on the island of Great Wyk, he'd diverted much of his army west in pursuit. It'd been a risk, but one taken with the expectation that the Martell fleet would soon arrive to support his position.

They never arrived, but another fleet did, led by Balon's brother Euron, and accompanied by thousands of mercenaries from Essos. The besiegers had become the besieged, and in his last days living, Ned regretted that he could not spend more time agonizing over the uncertain fates of his men he'd sent away, not when he looked into the eyes of his son, aged six and ten, a Crown Prince of the realm trapped with his father in a decaying castle on a faraway island not worth the salt he'd carried trying to take it from its rebels.

"Hoster," Ned whispered, his arms weakening with every blow as he invoked the name of his goodfather and Master of Law, "protect your daughter and grandchildren. Protect _our_ family."

The King feared for his family, little children of summer and all younger than Robb. Would they crown Bran, he wondered, his eldest son, yet a child of merely nine? Or perhaps Sansa, three years old than Bran. His beloved daughter, who took so much after Cat, who was growing more clever by the day, but so sweet and innocent, so caring...and so far sheltered from the cruelties of the world, even the castle they lived in all their lives, because Ned had never expected to die so soon, or to watch Robb die before him, before his royal eyes, fighting a rebellion against some fishermen he'd hardly given a second thought to when he'd left King's Landing.

It was not just the pirates and mercenaries who would complete this royal slaughter. Recognizing not just the sigils of the Ironborn, but that of the chevronels of House Rosby in the Crownlands, or the black leopards of House Vaith in Dorne, or the griffins of House Connington upon the man, the former Hand to King Aerys, who'd just struck the last, killing blow against his son, King Eddard of House Stark understood too late the depths of this betrayal...just how long his enemies would have plotted against him...and just how much danger his family was in, far away in the Red Keep. Would they eliminate them entirely, kill off all his children and his blood, as they'd done the Targaryens, in order to crown him a King?

"Forgive me," he cried, lying in a pool of his own blood, agonized, though not from the pain. "I've failed you all."

* * *

**The Dragon King: Year 297**

"Your Grace, the usurper Ned Stark is dead."

"Good."

Rhaegar Targaryen had never been one to rejoice in the deaths of others, whether friend or foe. But that had been several lifetimes ago, it seemed, when he was a Prince, when his children still lived, along with his wife, and the woman he loved.

Lewyn Martell stood at attention before him, the aged knight who'd followed faithfully first his Prince, then King, ever since the day they'd been forced to sail east, away from his family, the only home he'd ever known, and his rightful inheritance. He was the last surviving of his Kingsguard, Ser Gerold and the gallant Arthur Dayne cut down in Dorne, so that the usurper could take from him the last he had left in this world...his youngest son and last surviving child.

The King rose to his feet, and walked steadily towards the small fountain gracing his manse overlooking the ocean. Volantis had been good to him, Volantis was a good place for a rich man, a powerful man, to live out through the end of his days. But though Rhaegar was a King, he was not a rich man.

And the rich men harboring him and his small court in exile would have little reason to continue doing so if they suspected that he would intend to remain their guest for the rest of his life.

"We set sail for Pentos tomorrow." A glance towards the table, where a well used map of the seven kingdoms lay, but Rhaegar had little need for the parchment. He could leave it gathering dust tomorrow, having long memorized in his mind every detail of the domains of his family during the first of his agonizing years in exile. "Tell Connington to bide his time in Pyke. The Westerlands will support us, I believe, they're no friends to the Starks, but we must not be rash."

His voice was deeper, raspier, more weary than what he remembered in his youth. Could he still sing, Rhaegar wondered. He had not tried for so long, not since he'd heard of the deaths of his children...of his Lyanna.

Lewyn nodded obediently, and Rhaegar wondered just how many battles the old man had remaining in him. "Will you lead the attack on Massey's Hook yourself, Your Grace?"

The rightful King of Westeros, the Last Dragon Rhaegar Targaryen shook his head. "If I die, Prince Viserys needs to prove his worth as my heir. He needs to prove his worth to House Targaryen."

And were his younger brother to die leading his armies to victory, they both knew, it would not be the worst consequence of the coming war. It was not that Rhaegar disliked the young Prince, but Rhaegar had little love for him either, Viserys being far more bluster than heart. He had another heir, a true heir...except one trapped and raised with wolves far north in the kingdom of winter. So until Aegon, or Jon Stark, as the realm called him sacrilegiously, bent the knee towards where his true fealty ought lie, Rhaegar had no choice but to allow Viserys to continue believing that he was the future of their House.

His legs shaking, Rhaegar hobbled back to his seat, dropping his cane upon the floor as he collapsed until the chair. Under his silken robes were legs were marked with scars, permanent memories of that day upon the Trident, when he'd killed one rebel, yet lost a battle...then a war...then a family and seven kingdoms...

"What of the Princess?"

"Daenerys will stay with me in Pentos. But start sending ravens across the Narrow Sea, inquire whether any lords may wish the hand of marriage with a Princess of the blood, whether for themselves, or their sons."

It did strike him as odd, that Rhaegar never saw his younger sister in a sexual way. Perhaps it was because he'd known of her most their lives as a child, and because she was a child still. Did that make him less a Targaryen than his ancestors, that he'd never wanted someone Valyrian?

_And isn't she approaching Lyanna's age, now?_

Their mother had died birthing Daenerys, the former Queen reduced to the indignity of passing aboard a small ship crossing the Narrow Sea, yet another gift the Usurper bestowed upon his family.

It did not matter, even if he did covet his sister, he would have needed to exercise restraint, for a King in exile had little choice but to make alliances any way he could, and any Targaryen wasted in marriage with each other could be the waste of a shield which would have warded off a sword against their family, their House, their dynasty...any such sword poised to strike what could be the last and lethal blow against House Targaryen.

"Your Grace, know that I stand with you...this war, this last war."

Rhaegar could hear the exhaustion in the old man's voice. So many who'd once stood by him had died for him already. He'd rather Lewyn Martell live, one last reminder of the life he'd once lived himself.

"You'll stand beside me, Ser Lewyn, when I sit on the Iron Throne. Of this I promise, of this I know."


	2. Children of War

**Lewyn: Year 297**

_Why me?_

It's the question he's asked himself nearly every day since that fateful day at the Trident. Robert Baratheon died that day, yet they'd still lost the battle, and then the war. For that, Lewyn Martell blamed himself. Because he'd broken his vows, because he'd taken a lover, several in fact. That was why he'd been cursed to live, while finer men like Barristan Selmy perished at the hands of Robert Baratheon's ghost.

Yet, what was he to do? Rhaegar was losing the duel to the young stag, that was certain, Lewyn could see him wearying with every blow. His Prince was going to die on the battlefield, and stain the river with royal blood. After that, the battle was surely lost, wasn't it? So Lewyn charged forward, and he knew in his mind that the moment his sword pierced Robert Baratheon through his gigantic back was one moment before the man was about to deliver to Rhaegar the killing blow.

"The storm is strong," the beautiful girl said, hair and robes drenched already, standing next to him upon the bow of the ship. Daenerys Targaryen, the youngest child of the Mad King, who survived where her mother did not. "Was it as bad as this, the day I was born?"

"Worse," Lewyn replied. He had not heard her approach him by his side, until her voice echoed against the wind, refusing to die amidst the torrent. "Tenfold worse."

His lover, a courtesan from a minor house named Anna, had died in King's Landing when Tywin Lannister took the city. Yet, Lewyn did not mourn, because what right did he have to mourn a woman he had no right loving in the first place? Besides, his honor had been stained already by his actions upon the Trident. Rhaegar never chided him for taking paramours, never cared about that particular part of his vows, yet his Prince did not speak to him more than what was necessary for months after so dishonoring him during the battle, not when he was at times Rhaegar's only companion as they fled, first to Dragonstone, then east across the Narrow Sea. But what was done was done. Truly, his honor had lost been lost the first time Lewyn had broken his vows, so what difference did one more stain upon his cloak make, even if it'd brought upon him Rhaegar's scorn? Rhaegar still lived, that was all that mattered.

"Did she fear death? My mother?"

"No," Lewyn replied, his heart breaking every time he thought back at the sad memories of his last Queen, who'd yet remained strong until the end. "She'd been through far worse to fear a thing as trifling as death."

Daenerys nodded, understanding. They'd not minced words to her or Viserys as to the man Aerys actually was, in his last years...the monster he'd become. War was coming, they'd been preparing for it through all her life, this youngest child of the Targaryen dynasty, and none of them could afford to bath in lies and fantasies.

"I'm not afraid either," Daenerys began, before the girl changed her mind. "I am afraid."

"You shouldn't be, child," Lewyn said gently. "You'll stay in Pentos with the King, once we land. He intends to keep you far from battle."

"So I'll be shirking in my duties, to my House."

Lewyn placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, feeling the fabric slipping off under the downpour.

"You'll be useless in battle, girl, we both know this."

"I won't be," Daenerys insisted, though Lewyn could tell she knew better.

He'd been useless during that last battle too. They'd saved Rhaegar's life, Barristan Selmy jumping quickly into the fray the moment Robert fell from his horse. Yet, if anything, the death of their leader spurred the rebel army to a greater rage than any of them could imagine. _Treachery_, they cried, and not wrongly so, charging forward, threatening to envelop them from the get go.

_"Protect your Prince,"_ Barristan had ordered, closer to the rebel front, and though neither held command over the other, without another word Lewyn had obeyed, barely leading his exhausted and wounded charge through the lines of the rout. His own men, his people, the Dornish right of Rhaegar's army collapsed without Lewyn leading them, and his own eyes witnessed the resolve of their center buckle as Ned Stark and a half dozen northmen overwhelmed Ser Barristan in the river where Rhaegar would've fell.

"You will. Your duty is to marry, to help your brother, your King, seal alliances with the great houses of the realm."

"I know." She did not seem enthused at the prospect. But she had no choice. Neither did he, not after he'd failed so completely, sixteen years before. They'd all do their duty, they'll all serve their king. Or die trying.

* * *

**Sansa**

_I must be strong._

She did not feel strong, the eldest surviving child of the King, a father gone, never to hug her again, or read her a story by the hearth. Her throat was dry, her eyes chapped, having bawled through the night upon receiving the raven from the Iron Islands. When Sansa finally fell asleep, by the time the morning light was already beginning to creep up above the horizon, she dreamed she was a wolf, wandering lost in dark and endless woods, her feet...her paws, leaving tracks through snow, which she'd never seen before through all the years of her short life.

"I'll kill them all," her younger sister Arya swore, from across the small solar, holding their youngest brother Rickon in her small arms, "every last one of them. There won't be a Greyjoy alive by the I'm done with them."

"I want them dead too," Sansa replied, her voice scratched. "But killing them won't bring father back. It won't bring Robb back."

In her hands she held her brother Bran, younger than Arya by a year. Within minutes they could come, and announce to Ned Stark's children which one it would be amongst them who was to sit next upon her father's throne. It was to be her or Bran, they all knew. Sansa would wish it upon Bran, except she knew he dreaded the thought, perhaps even more than she.

"But we'll avenge their deaths."

"Father never cared about revenge. Or Robb. I think...I hope...wherever they are now, they're not bothered by such angry thoughts." She rarely recalled seeing her father angry, at them, or in court. Serious, for sure, most of the time, but it had always broken Sansa's heart to see father angry. Especially on the rare occasion where she'd been the cause of it.

Even in grief, they argued. It wasn't that Sansa didn't love her sister, but there were many times when she didn't much _like_ Arya. But not now though, now more than ever, they needed to stay together, because while her sister's...temper at times was a bit much, the sentiment was needed. They had enemies, enemies their family had made long before any of them had been born...enemies which would destroy them entirely if they could, now that they were weak, now that their King, their father, was dead, and a child soon to replace him on the Iron Throne.

"What now," Arya asked, the fire still lit in her eyes. "One of you will rule, by the end of today. Do you plan on forgiving the Greyjoys, dear sister, dear brother? Letting them keep their crown, their islands...our father's body...his sword?"

Sansa shook her head. "Neither Bran and I will rule. Mother says there's to be a," she stumbled upon her words, trying to recall what their mother had told her last night, holding both her and Arya while they cried into her bosom.

"A regency council," Bran said. He was a clever child. "Maybe Uncle Benjen will bring the northern armies south."

They all said Sansa was clever, but she thought Bran grasped more at his age now than she did at ten. Even Arya was clever, in her own way. Sansa was good at singing, at remembering all the words to her favorite songs, at knowing where to place her feet and which way to swing her hips during a dance, at sewing pretty dresses for herself. All talents she'd expected to be useful as a Princess, as a Lady and a wife and mother one day. But what use were such trivial talents were they to ask her to sit on her father's throne and wage war against their enemies?

"I suppose the war must continue," Sansa admitted, biting her lips. "Maybe we'll see cousin Jon." Arya smiled at that. Sometimes Sansa thought Arya loved their cousin better than she loved any of her own siblings. "They say he's becoming a fine swordsman, and an even better leader."

"I'd like to join him out there." Arya smiled, and it warmed Sansa's heart to see that, because when they'd heard the news, she feared none of them might ever smile again. "Your Grace," Arya added mockingly.

"Shut up," Sansa replied, her own lips breaking into a soft grin. Bran giggled too, and Rickon next to Arya, even though Sansa suspected that he was laughing only because the rest of them were.

"I don't see why we can't be there while they figure things out," Arya continued, her eyes squinting in concentration. "Especially the two of you, if they're to decide which one of you to take the throne, then you should be part of the decision too."

"What use would we be in there," Sansa scoffed. "What could we tell them that they don't already know? That we miss father? That we're terrified, that we'll do our duty if we have to, just like father did when they crowned him, but none of us want it?" Though her sister's words weren't entirely untrue. She would have liked to listen in, if only so she didn't have to wait, so she'd know whether she should be feeling dread coursing through her veins...or relief.

"I trust mother," Bran said, clutching her arms with his small hands. "She'll know what's best, she always does."

"And Grandpapa." They said it'd been Hoster Tully who'd decided the matter of the Throne at the end of Robert's Rebellion, whose arrival at King's Landing convinced the lords to crown their father...and their mother, rather than Stannis Baratheon. "You should marry Jeyne, if they name you King. She'll be a good Queen."

"She's pretty," Bran said, thinking over the matter way too seriously, and Sansa regretted making the remark. Of course Bran couldn't marry Jeyne, he needed to marry a lady from a powerful southern house, not a northern girl from a minor family.

"She'll make a far better Queen than you, sister."

"Hush Arya, that may already be treason," Sansa replied with a smirk, knowing that her sister taunted her in jest, because if there were anyone Arya hated more than herself...or the Greyjoys after this day, it was Jeyne Poole, who'd ridiculed her when they were younger. That had been the one time they'd nearly come to blows, when Jeyne kept calling her sister Horseface, and Arya had decided to turn her anger on Sansa, rather than Jeyne, for not stopping her friend. Which she did want to do, Sansa could tell how unhappy Arya was, that it'd become far more than just a harmless joke. But Jeyne was her friend too, and she did not want to chide Jeyne, to make her angry at her, for how many friends did she _truly_ have in court, who liked her for who she was, who'd known her since they were both children...who cared not for who her father was.

"Treason is those who betrayed our father," Arya muttered, clutching Rickon closer to her chest, any lightness vanished again from her eyes.

"The lone wolf dies...," Sansa began.

"The pack survives," they all chanted after her, even Rickon.

"Father and Robb aren't here to protect us now. Whatever happens today, they'll try to tear us apart. We can't let that happen."

They were mature words, the kind to be uttered by a grown woman, a proper lady, but Sansa felt neither mature, nor grown, nor a woman. Saying them, hearing her own voice echo against the walls of the keep, she felt a fraud, and wondered how worse it would be for her to have to speak thusly before an entire realm.

"I'll continue my lessons with Syrio," Arya said seriously. "I'll be your Kingsguard, or Queensguard, whichever one of you they choose."

Firm knocks interrupted their private sanctuary, and all four children turned to look anxiously upon the large wooden door, as if awaiting their execution, rather than the coronation of one of their own. Father followed daughter inside, and though they all wanted to leap into the arms of their mother and grandfather, none dared do so, because all of them, even Rickon, were aware of the seriousness of the occasion.

Sansa had never seen her mother so worn, so frail, looking as if she were about to collapse upon the floor at any moment, even as Sansa knew full well just how strong Queen Catelyn of House Tully was, the strongest woman she'd ever known all her life. The Queen would not fall, she would reign firmly, and though she'd been born a trout, Sansa trusted her mother to guard over her pups for the rest of her life, as fierce as any wolf north of the Wall.

"Arya, Rickon," the Queen acknowledged first. Dowager Queen, Sansa corrected in her mind sadly, though even thinking it meant a lasting reminder that her father was dead, never to return. _She's the only Queen I've ever known, she'll always be my Queen...my mother._

"Who's it to be then," Arya asked, bold as always.

"You understand, children," Hoster Tully began, "this has nothing to with your worth, whoever is to be crowned, or not. Your mother and I love each one of you dearly, each one of you would make for a great King, or Queen."

"Except Sansa," Arya cracked. Sansa laughed with her sister, and brothers, but neither adults seemed to find the humor in her words.

Mother and grandfather knelt before her and Bran, both of them shrinking back from the family they loved, the only time she'd ever had cause to truly fear them, Sansa realized. Her mother reached out towards her, and took her right arm, wrapped around Bran's chest. Sansa did not want to let go, to relent and give it to her, but she had no choice. Watching her hand be pulled away, as if it no longer belonged to her, Sansa's eyes widened in terror when she saw her mother lowering her head, lips brushing against the back of her hand.

"Your Grace."

Her grandfather followed. Mother rose, and bowed to her in reverence, before standing back up. Would this be how it'd be between mother and daughter for the rest of their lives?

"Your Grace," Hoster Tully whispered, after his own coarse lips had brushed against his granddaughter's hand. "My Queen."

By the time she took back her hand, her entire body was trembling. Letting gently her brother go, the Queen stood, and they all knelt again, even Arya. First, she hugged Bran.

"You'll be a good Queen, sister." Sansa heard relief in his voice, rather than disappointment.

"Thank you, Bran."

"Your Grace," Hoster continued, as she embraced Arya, "your Small Council awaits you."

"I need a bit of time," Sansa said, her small, delicate feet taking her to the corner of the solar. She should've been preparing her mind for this occasion all day, how to act, what to say, were they to name her Queen. But she'd spent the day wishing it away instead. Now, it was too late.

"Of course," mother replied, taking all her younger siblings into her arms, her dress as black as a raven's feathers, the mark of the widow.

"Grandpapa, can you stay?"

"Of course dear."

_Lord Hoster, you may stay. _ That was how a Queen ought speak, Sansa reminded herself. Even to family, because the Throne preceded even blood.

Sansa saw that her grandfather was eager to sit. _The Kingmaker,_ many called him. _The Queenmaker now,_ Sansa supposed, one of the most powerful men in the land, yet growing older and frailer by the day, before her very eyes. She took the chair opposite him.

"Why me?"

Hoster Tully sighed. "Your mother wanted Bran in her heart, I think. She wants to protect you both, she wants to protect all her children...but she wanted to protect you more. Jon Arryn seemed inclined to Bran too, earlier today...but by afternoon he'd favored you."

"What about you, Grandpapa?"

Leaning forward, the old man took her small hands into his, holding them closely. He'd always had a lighter touch than father, Sansa thought.

"I was full of ambition, when I was young. I have my duty to my lands, of course. But duty had little to do with seeking a Stark husband for my eldest daughter...or marrying Lysa to Jon Arryn."

"You wanted to overthrow the Targaryens." The Mad King, the worst of the worst, who would've massacred all her family, had father and Robert Baratheon not raised their banners to oppose him.

"I wanted power," Hoster admitted, eyes downcast. "I wanted fame. Not to be a King, or to father a Queen...or even to live in King's Landing these last sixteen years as I have, and sit on a Small Council, not at first...but I wanted my name out there all the same...a man who helped overthrow a dynasty, who'd helped cast out the dragons...the man who'd sealed the terms that decided the fate of Seven Kingdoms, and their new dynasty."

Something was wrong. Most men would list off such accomplishments with pride. But her grandfather was not most men. Neither had been her father. She'd never heard her grandpapa speak of this past, or speak of it like this, his aged voice dripping with shame. Why was he ashamed? Wasn't it a good thing, to overthrow the Mad King and Prince Rhaegar? Was it even a bad thing, to want power for yourself, your house, wasn't that the desire of every house in the realm, so long as they paid fealty to their liege lords and the Iron Throne?

"Do you regret it?"

He smiled, and clasped her hands in understanding, a melancholic chuckle upon his face that Sansa could not read.

"I've come to know...I've come to love your father. Not as my son by law...or my King...but as my own son. All of you, you're my dearest grandchildren, each and one of you make me proud in every way. Robb...he would've been a great warrior...and a wise and noble King..."

The old man's hands shook, and one hand left her grip to wipe a tear from his eyes.

"To think, that had I not played with Kings and crowns so many years ago...that they might still be alive. That you may still have a father, an older brother. That I may still have my own brother alive..."

Sansa could feel her own nose sniffling, her grandfather's sorrow evoking her own deep sadness, never far from the surface since she'd heard the news. There'd been word too that the Blackfish had been killed alongside his King, her great uncle, a beast of a man who'd always challenged and jibed her brother Robb whenever he was in the capital, yet treated her and Arya with such sweetness.

"And now, I put you, or Bran, in greater danger. Because understand, Sansa, there is great peril, for our families, for whomever holds the throne. Yet we've no choice in the matter, because of my decisions after the fall of King's Landing."

"You weren't the only one who wanted father King," Sansa tried, consoling her grandfather, the only one of her parents' parents she'd ever known all her life.

"Any other family save ours, you must understand Sansa, Bran would be King. Most of this country will never be happy being ruled by a woman, they'll fight you, my dear Sansa, every step of the way, every day you sit on the Iron Throne, every day you draw breath..."

_So make Bran king then._

"Is it because he's younger?"

"Aye," Hoster admitted, his eyes distant. "I'll sit on the Regency Council, it's my duty, and it'll be my greatest honor, serving my Queen. But I can count with two hands how many times I've been home since your father took his throne, since I watched my daughter sit beside him, his Queen. Jon Arryn too, he has his own son to raise..." He shook his head again. "It won't be easy, for you. It wouldn't have been easy for Bran, either. Your dynasty is young, fresh...not at all established, in the eyes of so many across the realm...not with the Dragons lying in wait across the Narrow Sea. Had we named Bran the King, it would have taken longer for him to come of his age. And you, Sansa, you would have need married."

It was all she'd expected all her life. Sansa imagined, had she not grown up a Princess, she would've dreamed of marrying a fair Prince. But all the princes of the realm were her own brothers, save Dorne...yet the songs did not discriminate between fair princes or knights, a noble man was a noble man, a beautiful man was beautiful all the same, whether a Prince, or a Lord.

She'd been singing Florian and Jonquil last night, when they'd brought her the news. Could she ever sing that song again, or even bear to hear it sung by others?

"Perhaps your husband would have been selfless, and honorable. Perhaps not. Perhaps he would have sought to use you against your brother."

"I'd never go against Bran," Sansa replied, horrified. "I want him to be king, grandpapa. I don't want him to suffer, having to sit in that chair, and have to fight our enemies all the time. But I don't..." She hesitated. It mattered not. She was Queen now, and it didn't matter what she did or didn't want.

"It's alright to admit it," Hoster whispered. "We must be honest with ourselves, because if not ourselves, if not our family, then who else?"

"I understand."

"It wouldn't have been up to you. Men are brutes, we're monsters, we're beasts, when we're at our worst. We can charm a Princess, court her, sing the fairest songs to her. But the moment we claim her for ourselves...there are many who would've not seen you as a Princess of the blood, my dear...but as a wife...as a lord's wife, a prize...as a breeding mare...at best." Taking his other hand from hers, he clasped his head in what seemed to be agony. "I'm sorry, Sansa. It's the way of the world. It kills my soul to have to tell you these things..."

"They would have used me against Bran," Sansa repeated, the idea so strange in her mind. "Unwillingly."

_Men are beasts,_ her grandfather's words echoed in her head. _They'll sing fair songs to me...they'll lie. _ Though she was still far too young, Sansa was not naive to the idea that many of the men at court would have openly sought her hand in marriage already, had they not feared her father's wrath in expressing their desires too obviously or coarsely. Young and old, fair and ugly, fat or thin..._were all their words lies? Telling me tales of my own beauty, my delicate voice, my cleverness?_

"They'd never dare go against Robb, or your father, while they lived," Hoster continued. "But a child king would give them a chance, while Bran is still young, and you are not. Look at the Targaryens, with their Dance of Dragons. Excepting the dragons of old, they're not that different from most of the families in the Seven Kingdoms, save maybe Dorne. But we Tully's...we Starks, we understand the meaning of the word _family_. You've a great father, a great mother, they raised you the right way, despite all their duties to the realm. You all love each other, you all support each other."

"Even Arya," Sansa tried joking. Grandpapa smiled, but he did not laugh.

"Even Arya," he repeated numbly. "Many other dynasties, Bran will spend the rest of his life resisting you, fighting you for a crown he believes his. But because he is a _Stark_, because he is a _Tully_...because he is your _brother_, and he loves you, and because the King has taught him, taught all of you to see the Iron Throne not as a prize to be won, but as a solemn duty...he will support you. As Ned Stark's eldest surviving son, Bran will become a great lord one day, one of the most powerful in the land."

"So rather than a young King whose sister's lord husband may fight him," Sansa recited, trying to piece together grandpapa's puzzle in her mind, "House Stark will have a Queen supported by her powerful brother. That's why you crowned me, instead of Bran."

"It is. Jon Arryn believed the same, too."

They used to play a game, her and mother, when she'd sat at court with her father sitting upon his throne, her throne now. In truth, it was vanity that caused her to attend, so she could show off before all the lords and ladies her newest and prettiest dresses, so that the fair knights of the land could come kiss her hand, and flatter her with their kind words, and tell her of how beautiful she looked.

_Lies. They'll all lie to me, through their smiles and sweet words._

And funny enough, that was the game she and mother played. They'd listen to a lord's pronouncements, or pleadings, or beseeching, knelt before father seated in the Iron Throne, and they'd each guess whether they were lying, or telling the truth. Whether they were sincere in their testimony before their King, or whether mother ought warn father later that night, regarding this or that lord she did not trust. Sometimes they would find out whether their guesses came close to the truth. But more often Sansa would forget such serious matters, once she left court, and returned to her lessons, or to play with her siblings.

Yet, if she were to play that nameless game now, Sansa Stark would guess that her grandpapa, whom she loved, whom she knew loved her, more than any of his grandchildren, according to mother...Sansa would guess that grandpapa was lying to her. That the reasoning he'd just given her was not the reason he'd chosen to make her Queen over Bran. Not the entire reasoning, anyway.

_I could wait and not marry, not until Bran is a man fully grown._ That would solve the problem of this treacherous husband she did not yet have, and could never imagine.

_I remind him of his wife,_ Sansa remembered mother telling her, _my grandmother Minisa. That's why I'm his favorite, though he'd never admit it to me, or any of my brothers or sisters._

_Was that it,_ Sansa wondered. Did Hoster Tully convince all the lords to name her to the Iron Throne because of the color of her hair, the fairness of her complexion...because she reminded him of his dear and long departed wife?

And if so, how many similarly crucial decisions in the history of the kingdoms came down to such..._trivial_ reasoning?

Sansa could not tell whether grandpapa could see the doubt in her eyes. But it did not matter. _It's done, it can't be undone._ She'd remembered father saying those words, when he recalled his own ascension to the throne.

"Come, Your Grace," Hoster said, his voice belonging not to her grandfather, but her advisor now, "your seven kingdoms await."

_Not a prize,_ father had said. _But the most serious burden. The most serious responsibility._

Sansa Stark had never felt so weak in her life, until the day she became a Queen.


	3. The Little Queen

**Sansa**

"I'm so sorry."

"You lost a brother, Your Grace."

Sansa Stark shook her head, as her handmaidens, little ladies close to her in age, give or take a year or two, who'd all of a sudden saw themselves elevated to ladies in waiting to the Queen, pulled down her sleeves for the soft white gray dress she would wear to the haphazard coronation they'd prepared for her.

"You lost a betrothed, a man you loved." Sansa took the older girl into her arms. "And I know you loved Robb truly, Margaery. He loved you too, he talked about you every night, at supper, it vexed father so, that his eyes would be distant, thinking about you, when he ought to have been thinking of his duties..."

_Duties he'll never live to fulfill, _Sansa thought sadly_._

Margaery smiled warmly back at her. Once, only mere days ago, she'd looked up to Margaery, the beautiful, older daughter of Highgarden, her brother's beloved, who smelled of the roses which she bore as the sigil of her house...and who was to be her future Queen. Now, it fell as part of her duties to comfort the girl, who was almost a woman now, certainly far more woman than Sansa in every single way.

"Would milady...I'm sorry, Your Grace wish for a necklace today?" Samtha Rykker held up several before Sansa. A mere day and a half since they'd named her Queen, none of her little ladies, or even her own siblings, had quite gotten used to addressing Sansa in the proper manner yet. Nor did Sansa want them to, though she knew the choice was not hers. It was funny, the little Queen thought, that becoming queen meant she would lose so much of the freedom she'd once enjoyed as a lady, as a royal princess of the court.

Picking one adorned with rather modest sized and emerald colored jewels, Sansa knew that it did not match with the colors of her gown, or her father's crown they would place upon her head today, but she did not care. It was her favorite necklace, and on this day, when the High Septon would officially signify to the realm that she now belonged to them, and no longer herself...Sansa Stark...no, Sansa I Stark, as the maesters would record in their books for the rest of time, wanted one thing for herself.

"Thank you Samtha."

"It looks beautiful on you, Your Grace."

Samtha smiled furtively. They gossiped that the brown haired girl with the chubby face and the chubbier waist was the plainest of all her ladies. Jeyne was especially unkind to Samtha, and not always behind her back, but Jeyne was prone to be mean. She hadn't always been bad, Sansa thought. Once she'd been plain too, her hair never done in the southern way, her dresses all made in the north, and they'd all mocked her, the southern girls. Until they grew older, and all the court saw how the eldest daughter of the King loved her northern friend more than anyone else, and then they all began lavishing Jeyne with gifts, and flattering words, as if her own proximity to the Princess practically made her one.

"You found this one for me, when that merchant from Qarth brought five wheelhouses of treasure to the market, you were the one to see it Samtha, you knew I'd love it the moment I saw it."

From the corner of her eye, Sansa noticed Jeyne squinting her eyes in jealousy. _Why must she always try and be so horrible, why is Jeyne always trying to out southron the southrons?_

"You look absolutely splendid, Sansa." It seemed odd, that out of all of them, Margaery could still freely address her by the name she was born with, and have it feel absolutely natural. Margaery was just that way, she just had that ability always making everyone comfortable in her presence. "I _truly_ will miss you, you've been so wonderful to me, Your Grace. I only wish...you would've made_ the best_ goodsister..."

Sansa paused, looking hesitatingly at the older girl, the only person save their parents who could've left Robb shaking and petrified in fear.

_Was he afraid, when the Greyjoy pirates struck him down next to father? Who died first, and who had to watch the other die? _These questions asked themselves often in her nightmares.

"Perhaps...you don't have to leave, Lady Margaery. I...," Sansa looked around. Most of her handmaidens knew her well enough, and could guess as to what she was about to offer. All of them held their faces plainly, trying not to betray any expression, any notion of jealousy...all besides Samtha, who looked dumbly at the Queen and her friend without any sort of pretense whatsoever. "Maybe you can stay. I know we're just a bunch of silly girls to you, my lady, but perhaps a place in court by my side, until you find a new betrothed..."

"I wouldn't think of such a thing," Margaery gasped, "I still can't believe he's no longer with us..."

"At least it gives you time to mourn. Of course, if it is Highgarden you wish to return to..."

"My heart yearns for home," the older girl thought out loud, "but I cannot refuse such an honor, if the Queen extends it..."

"It's not just an honor, it would be my pleasure, a blessing bestowed upon me, for you to remain by my side, Lady Margaery."

"Then it would be my pleasure to wait upon my Queen, Your Grace." Margaery said this such familiarity, it must've sounded to all that she'd known Sansa as her Queen her entire life.

All her other ladies were better at hiding their displeasure than Jeyne, who frowned in naked jealousy. Except Samtha, who gasped in sheer joy.

"Oh, I'm so happy you can join us, Lady Margaery..."

Sansa knew that Jeyne would express her displeasure to her one way or another, in the days to come. She would not hear the end of it, she expected. But she was the Queen now, what else could she do with her new position, what else could she do for _herself_, except to keep this girl, this woman she admired, by her side for just awhile longer. It was one thing that did not need approval from her new Regency Council, or at least she'd hoped. At the very least, the Queen did not need permission from her ladies in waiting to appoint another.

* * *

Her neck ached throughout the coronation. The crown was a large one, and Sansa thought that had Bran or one of her other siblings been crowned in her place, it would wrap around their head entirely, dropping down below their neck against their tiny shoulders. The heavy thing perched upon her brow, Sansa had to learn her head backwards, so that the front of it could rest against her forehead, and the rear against the back of her head, almost to her neck. It was entirely iron, father had insisted on no jewels or southern adornments upon it but one, a gray, seven-sided crystal at its front, with seven elegant swords raised high into the sky, in the same manner as those worn by the Kings of Winter thousands of years before her, each sword's weight feeling the entirety of her father's sword Ice pressing down against her.

_"Long may she reign. Long may she reign. Long may she reign."_

They all chanted this, the High Septon's grubby voice closer to her ears than all the others. She'd spoken to the man once or twice before. As the daughter of Eddard Stark, born of Winterfell, she worshiped the gods of old, and spent many a day by the Godswood and its garden father had made in the Red Keep, enlarging the grounds from the smaller sanctuary the Targaryens kept more out of necessity than reverence.

But as the daughter of Catelyn Tully, many of Sansa's earliest memories were the recital of all the verses in the Seven Pointed Star, with all its tales written of the gods and their enemies, more of them seemingly residing in the world she inhabited rather than any godly domicile.

How could both sets of gods be true, she'd asked this High Septon, a fat man with grease oozing from his cheekbones, when she'd been child far younger than the day she was crowned Queen.

_"They aren't," he replied. "Only the Seven, all else is blasphemy."_

Then why did the Targaryens along with all the houses of the realm honor both, even if they did not believe in her northern gods? What of her father, who kept to the old ways, did this mean he was destined for one of the Seven Hells?

_"Your father is a King. The gods make exceptions through the Doctrine of Exceptionalism for those who sit upon the Iron Throne, so long as they defend the Faith of the Seven, and allow the Faith to flourish under their reign."_

Didn't that doctrine apply only to the Targaryens? What about all the Starks who came before her father, like Bran the Builder? Or even grandfather Rickard, or uncle Brandon, who'd died long before her father could be of any use to the Seven?

_"The Gods are all-knowing, all wise,"_ the Septon had replied, his voice growing more unsure with each answer, Sansa had thought. _"They knew the future of the Stark line, its great destinies ahead, and preserved their souls..."_

_"What about all the northerners who weren't Starks? Like Jeyne, or Jory Cassel, or the Boltons, and Karstarks, and Cerwyns and Hornwoods and Umbers..."_

He'd changed the subject then, though to what, Sansa did not remember. She'd had little use for him after that day, deciding that even as she worshiped the gods with all her heart, even as she studied with Septa Mordane and believed in all the teachings of the Seven Pointed Star, perhaps the gods had made maybe this one mistake with this High Septon, perhaps they hadn't realized that he was not as clever, or as holy perhaps, as they'd thought...including her own father, who'd appointed the man. She'd received his blessing, before the coronation, but Sansa could tell he wanted more from her. Was it her personal warmth and approval? A place on her Small Council, or Regency Council? More godly advice for her to ask he dispense with, of which she knew he knew little of, except what was written in books available for all to read, text which read the same regardless of eyes?

Though the ceremony was painful, in the literal sense of the word, the new Queen could take comfort from the eyes of her family, buried in grief as they were, cast upon her with pride. Even old Jon Arryn, who'd always been polite and courteous to her but little more, seemed to study her with his weathered orbs, as if still unsure of just how wise he'd been in picking her over Bran although, Sansa was sure, if forced to be admit the entire truth, he'd preferred neither of his choices, a little boy, or a girl only a few years older.

The ceremony was thankfully short, as Sansa had pleaded her mother for, a Queen begging the favors of others from the first certainly an auspicious sign to begin her reign. The lords easily dispersed to a small feast for themselves, a modest celebration because the kingdoms were still at war, still mourned their fallen King, and the new Queen sat before all to preside over its commencement, taking the tiniest sip of her wine before giving a brief toast written by grandpapa and Lord Jon, and receiving a louder acclamation in return, before she and her Small Council departed to meet at once to discuss the pressing business of the realm.

"You did well today, Sansa," her mother hugged her, before she took her seat, closest to her at the table. Across from her sat Jon Arryn, her father's Hand, whose position she had no reason to change. Beside him grandpapa, the Master of Law, and across, sitting next to her mother, Archmaester Ebrose, who'd served on her father's Small Council since he'd called him from the Citadel after the rebellion. Seated furthest from her on mother's side was Petyr Baelish, her Master of Coin, and across from him the Master of Whispers, Lord Renly Baratheon, who began by addressing the matter of the two empty chairs in her Small Council.

"I've a raven from my brother," the youngest brother of the late Robert began, reading a scroll the scroll in his hand. She'd always liked Renly, so Sansa averted her eyes at the man as he spoke, knowing what was to come. "They've managed to break the siege at Pebbleton and reach sanctuary at Kayce. Many died fighting, but many survived. All fought well."

The last words he read grimly, as if in Stannis's voice. It was known through all the court that neither brother much liked the other, but there was respect, and Sansa thought Lord Renly had to be pleased that his brother survived the Greyjoy trap.

"What of Lord Commander Waynwood?"

"Ser Addam perished with his King," Renly said sadly, "Lord Hoster, Your Grace. And your brother as well."

Uncle Brynden she'd mourned with the others. She'd still held out hope that Ser Addam may have lived so he could return to protect her. The younger and bastard brother of Lady Anya Waynwood, he'd fought valiantly beside father first at the Trident, then in Dorne, where the then young knight had been the one to defeat Ser Gerald Hightower while father and Howland Reed beat the legendary Arthur Dayne in combat. After the war, father had promised to legitimize the man so long as he immediately took his oaths to the Kingsguard, so not to threaten his half-sister's claim over Ironoaks Castle. But Sansa remembered Lord Commander Addam only as a quiet man, who seemed to be the living embodiment of father's shadow, yet always had a smile for her or Arya, who'd hand her a small piece of lemon candy when the King's attention was turned.

The chair she sat in now had been her father's, and like the Iron Throne, Sansa felt impossibly small in it, as if three of her could sit side by side and still have room left.

"I give thanks to the Gods Lord Stannis survives," the Queen proclaimed, nervously reciting the words her mother and Jon had written for her to study and memorize only that morning. "He will remain in his place upon my Regency Council, and my Small Council."

That meant four, along with mother, Jon Arryn, and Hoster Tully. They needed one more for five, and as far as Sansa knew, no decision had yet been made on that matter.

"Your Grace," Jon Arryn began, his blue eyes deathly serious. "What I tell you now, you must keep within the ears of this Council only."

"I understand."

"You can't even tell your brothers, or sisters," mother said, taking her hand as she instructed her. "Not your ladies, not your friends, not even Jeyne."

"Panic must not spread," Lord Baelish said from across Renly, "not until we have a plan of attack."

"Attack," Sansa asked. "So this will be war then?"

"Aye," the Archmaester nodded, "and a larger one that we thought, when King Eddard rode west to lay siege to Pyke and Balon Greyjoy."

"Dorne's treachery is noted already," grandpapa said sadly. "Though they haven't responded to our summons, we must consider them in a state of rebellion against the Iron Throne, Your Grace."

_Dorne. Rebellion. Haven't they never been conquered through war,_ Sansa thought, remembering her lessons, but dared not ask.

"But other banners were sighted along with the Greyjoys and their mercenaries," Renly added. "Houses Rosby and Buckwell, for one, from our very Crownlands. Houses Hogg and Rykker as well, so it would seem the conspiracy extends even to Harrenhal."

"Samtha's uncle," Sansa gasped, shocked.

"Sansa, I don't doubt that your friend knows nothing of this," mother said, as gently and as tenderly as possible.

"Though it should not be discounted entirely, that the girl may have known of...something," Petyr Baelish, a man she considered her own uncle, added mysteriously.

"Regardless, her family has rebelled," the Queen Dowager continued, "Ned's...your father's blood stains their hands..."

"The castles are already vacated," Jon said, "the lords and their bannermen fled under our noses. We'll move to take Rosby, Antlers, Sow's Horn and Harrenhal, give them to lords worthy of our trust, houses that will support us in the war to come."

"Is it Rhaegar," Sansa dared ask, speaking the name of the shadow, the specter across the Narrow Sea which had loomed over their family since before the rebellion.

"I'm afraid so," Renly replied, and Sansa thought he sounded just a tad fearful. "Jon Connington holds Pyke along with the Greyjoys, which means this is Rhaegar's first move."

Grandpapa. "Which means there's more to come."

"Will they attack King's Landing," mother asked, deathly concerned.

"If they are fools," her Hand said, Sansa's own panic instantly abated at his assurance. War was one thing...war here, at _home_, against her, where they'd expect her to lead...that...that was completely _unimaginable_.

Jon Arryn continued. "Rhaegar will seek to test the waters. My guess is the Crownland banners sailed to Driftmark, House Velaryon was one of the last to submit to your father. There, they'll gather with Rhaegar's men. They may strike anywhere along the coast, but they'll avoid the capital for now...and wait until they gather more support."

"Rhaegar believes that more and more houses will rally to him," Petyr said, "the longer he maintains his armies upon our shores. He'll wait until he believes himself invincible, until he outnumbers us, perhaps, five to one, before he'd make a move on King's Landing."

"Which is why we must crush them," Jon said, "wherever they invade, before their rebellion gets any chance at growing."

"Will they grow," Sansa asked. It seemed the obvious question, yet none had addressed it thus far. "Will they get support from the other houses?"

A pause, first.

"We don't believe so," grandpapa assured. "Not unless they see us losing the war, not unless we appear weak."

"We lost our King," Sansa said, feeling an odd sensation growing in her heart. It was anger. These old men, who'd always seemed so wise all her life, who was her own kin...yet...just how wise were they? How could they know all this now, and yet let father die? "They must see us so weak already."

"It was treachery," Petyr said. "It was a trap, the lords understand this, so long as we respond with strength."

"Do you know this? Or are you just guessing?"

Sansa did not know what had come over her. Perhaps it was an aftereffect of the weight of the Crown placed upon her head earlier, that she would believe she had the actual power to challenge these men...and mother...even though they sat before her telling her of these things as a favor, a courtesy...even though they could go on and keep her in a tower and carry on with their war all the same. Yet, she heard herself challenging them anyway.

"Certainly we have to speculate upon some matters," Jon said, briefly flustered at being called out by a little girl pretending to wear a crown, "but believe me, Your Grace, we don't take the country to war blindly."

"Yet," a raspy voice challenged, "we were blind, weren't we? We were blind to the Greyjoy ambush which murdered our king, we were blind to the Martell betrayal, and we didn't know until it was too late that houses a mere three days' ride from the capital had decided to join an imminent Targaryen invasion." Petyr Baelish turned to Lord Renly, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and Sansa looked away, knowing that her dreaded moment had come.

"The failure is mine, and mine alone," Renly admitted, downcast. "Clearly Rhaegar has a better Master of Whispers than the one that serves you and your father, Your Grace."

All her Small Council looked to her expectantly now, and whatever courage she possessed just seconds before had long vanished into thin air.

"Lord Renly, you have served my father loyally for many years," she began, hearing her voice wavering, choking. As she spoke, Sansa had to avoid looking to her mother for comfort, but tried her best to address her Master of Whispers directly, looking kind Uncle Renly in his eyes. "But this...this...this war has been a failure...your failure, in this war..."

She knew the words she was supposed to say. Yet bringing them to voice was so difficult, to speak thusly at this man who had always been kind to her, who was well liked by everyone in the court, well liked by her mother and grandfather, who'd both nevertheless written for her the words she was forgetting now.

_Don't be weak,_ Sansa chided herself. _Father and Robb are dead, because of his failure._

_Yet, hadn't grandpapa and Jon Arryn and all of them failed just as much as uncle Renly?_

"I must ask...I must ask that...you...I must ask that you resign your seat from the Small Council."

Her final words came through smoothly, but at the cost of her composure. Her nose was sniffling, she could feel her eyes watering, and the Queen wondered whether she was about to break down and cry her first time before her Small Council.

"I understand," Renly said, no surprise in his voice as he rose to leave, and Sansa wondered where he would go. Storm's End, his brother's keep? Join the Watch, gods forbid? There weren't many places in her kingdoms for a younger brother, especially one who was not particularly skilled with the sword. Petyr had even pressed for his imprisonment, mother had told her, to be interrogated as to the extent he'd betrayed father, whether of negligence alone, or actual fealty to Rhaegar across the sea. Fortunately grandpapa had dismissed such suspicions as baseless, so Sansa was at least spared from having to lay down a far harsher pronouncement.

"Who will serve as our Master of Whispers now," she asked, the words, the question her own.

"It has not been decided yet," Jon replied. "We are searching for a replacement as we speak."

"Perhaps Lord Renly may continue to grace the Small Council with his wisdom," Sansa suggested, "until a replacement is found, of course."

"Your Grace," Petyr warned, "I'm not sure this is wise."

To her surprise, her mother nodded her agreement, as Renly paused by the doorway, not having expected this offer from her. Of course he hadn't, none of them did, until the idea appeared into her mind just now. She wondered how mad mother or grandpapa would be at her afterwards.

"Not as Master of Whispers," she thought, "but a seat...in general..."

"It's not unheard of," Hoster mused, deep in thought. "Your Grace, I do not believe it wise, to set the precedent of rewarding failure. But," he added, "perhaps we may keep Lord Renly at court, as your guest, so that his advice could still be easily given, were Your Grace to ask for it."

"Thank you, Your Grace, Lord Hoster, Queen Catelyn." Renly bowed graciously, before departing.

"It's a clever thought, Your Grace," Jon Arryn said approvingly. "With doubts as to the loyalties of all the realm between the Iron Throne and Rhaegar, better to keep Renly here."

"If he's a traitor, we can keep an eye on him," Petyr said, the seat across from him empty for now. "If he's loyal, it gives him lesser cause to seek out Rhaegar in his disappointment."

"That...," Sansa said, mouth agape, "I didn't think of any of that, really. I just..."

_Stupid girl, I shouldn't have admitted this!_

Would they think her a fool now, these older men who were so much wiser and cleverer than she, who could think steps beyond her own words, her own imaginations?

"You're kind," mother said warmly, any disapproval gone from her eyes. "You're compassionate, you didn't want to hurt him. But you must be strong, Sansa. Lord Renly...I do trust him, he was Robert's brother, and Ned loved him, almost like his own brother. But others...you must be take more care to be more...careful in...in dispensing...with your compassion. Not all of them will deserve it in the future, not all of them will reply it with gratitude."

"There is the matter of Lord Renly's replacement," Jon brought up, seemingly eager to break up the familial engagements of the Council meeting. "Any thoughts?"

"We must bring the west in," Petyr began. "For too long, they've been apart from the capital. The question is, who can we trust there?"

"Perhaps the Lannisters haven't fully swung their support behind Rhaegar yet," mother said, thinking, her finger gripping tightly the small of her chin. Sansa had never seen this..._political_ side of her before. "Else Lord Stannis would not be alive to send us ravens."

"And they're no friends to the Greyjoys," Hoster added, "it's the Westerlands who usually have borne the brunt of Ironborn aggression since the end of House Hoare."

"We should invite the Lannisters to the capital," the Archmaester agreed. "Let them profess their continued fealty to House Stark, to Queen Sansa, First of her Name...and we'll reward them justly."

Mother raised an eyebrow. "_Which_ Lannister exactly would the Council suggest?"

* * *

**Varys**

The King looked older, last he saw of him in Volantis. Rhaegar Targaryen seemed to age half a decade with each year he spent out in exile, the dashing young knight Varys remembered before the war almost forever vanished. Though little remained of the dashing Prince who'd charmed the entire realm before that awful war, the man they called the Spider thought that his eyes were still keen, intelligent, and alert, those features alone a thousand fold improvement upon his father, whom he was growing closer to in physical resemblance.

"Any word from the Lannisters?"

"Nothing," Varys replied. "Though no outright denial or denouncement either, which is a good sign, Your Grace."

"So they'll look to wait and see who's winning the war before throwing in their lot," Rhaegar muttered with disgust, "same as the last war."

"I wouldn't expect a lion to change their stripes, Your Grace, old or young, big or little."

"Do they expect us to reward them for such treachery?" The outburst came from the young Prince Viserys, not the worst Targaryen Prince Varys has known, not the best either, and certainly the reason the Spider was eager to arrange a good marriage for his King the moment he made his return to the Seven Kingdoms.

"Ned Stark didn't," Varys replied. "Which is why we have a chance at their loyalty in the first place."

Rhaegar glared at him first, before turning to his younger brother. "Agreed. Best not make the same mistake." The King shook his head. "It surprises me they chose the girl. Does it surprise you, Lord Varys?"

"It does," Varys admitted, prompting Rhaegar to raise one eyebrow in interest. "The choice of either one over the other would have surprised me."

"Which means neither surprises you." A surprising voice, belonging to the young Princess Daenerys, spoken from the corner of the small room that Rhaegar had settled in as his solar in the vast manse. None of them had known of her presence, until she just was suddenly there. Viserys seemed to bristle, but the King just gave her a calm and pacifying smile. Sometimes, Varys thought, it wasn't the thought of the Crown and the Throne that kept the King going, nor the idea of revenge, but his child sister, and who would provide for her were he to die, a lone Prince in exile.

_He hates her,_ Varys thought, watching Viserys glaring at his younger sister, _because she's everything he's not. Smart. Beautiful. Charming. _ _Yet, he wants her_, Varys knew. They both needed to marry. Soon, and _separately_, Rhaegar had agreed to that. It'd been one of the conditions Varys had set, before agreeing to serve the man.

"The people did not know what to think of the strange northman sitting on the throne which had belonged to the dragons for years," Varys began, a subtle wink at the young girl, who was becoming less and less a girl by the day. "He was stern, he was cold, he seemed to visibly shy away from their inherent need to love him, their King. Yet they saw in King Eddard a good man, a noble man, a fair man, who protected the smallfolk, who dealt justice to a common smith the same way he would any great lord. They saw his little wolflings, all good, lovely children, Princes and Princesses who would inherent the realm after Ned Stark, and they liked what they saw, father and children, King and heirs...King Eddard the Just one day, King Eddard the Beloved the next day..."

"Which is why he had to die now," Viserys interrupted, and the man they called the Spider cringed.

"Yes, it was a necessity." _And a tragedy_, Varys believed, one he would not have worked so hard to manifest into reality, had he not believed the King standing before him, whom he served ever since Ned Stark dismissed him following his coronation, had the potential to reign an equally just king. He never bore ill will against the man they called the Quiet Wolf, Varys knew he ought to consider himself lucky in keeping his head at all, war being war, after all that war had cost Ned Stark. But a man needs food upon his table, a reason to wake each morning and not drink and fuck himself into oblivion, though the latter was impossible to Varys...and all the little birds he'd cultivated through so many years, across so many lands...well, it would be a shame leave them unfed, abandoned and lost in the deep dark woods.

"What do you know about their new Queen," Daenerys asked, her voice curiously inquisitive.

"She's a lovely little girl, quite pretty, so they say." Varys turned to Rhaegar. "I know little of Bran Stark, except that he's clever too, a good child. Perhaps he'll grow to be a valiant warrior one day. But a pretty girl evokes stronger emotions in the people than a young boy. I believe they see in her a symbol. Hoster Tully and Jon Arryn. Ned Stark was strong but fair, and becoming beloved, as we all know. The picture of a beautiful young Queen sitting upon her father's throne can create a lasting legacy for their dynasty, engendering not the fear with which Aegon conquered and held six kingdoms with...but the love that Jaehaerys...and his little Queen Alysanne, inspired in making all the many kingdoms one."

"So long as they have the swords and shields of the northern three kingdoms standing behind the girl," Rhaegar noted, unmoved by his words. Looking up from the map, he questioned Varys. "What of House Baratheon?"

"Stannis is a loyal man, I doubt he'd budge. Lord Renly, on the other hand, I'd expect them to dismiss, for his failure." And that failure Varys had worked day and night to achieve, letting none but a critical few know of their trap, the secret sealed so shut that it threatened to endanger the entirety of their plans.

"You'll approach him, along with the Tyrells?"

The Spider turned to Lewyn Martell, who'd listened to their conversation without so much a word until now. In fact, Varys could swear he'd heard the old Kingsguard utter no more than a few dozen words ever since accompanying his charge to his new exile east of the Narrow Sea.

"_After_ we land, and make our presence known in the Seven Kingdoms."

"Approach such noble houses now," Rhaegar explained, for the sake of his younger brother, "and you force them to an immediate decision...whether to throw their support to us at once...or betray us at once and alarm the Red Keep."

"But war buys them time to make a decision," Varys continued, "and it buys us time to find..._new_ ways, of convincing them."

"So they can pick a winner depending on how the war is going," Daenerys interrupted, to the surprise of all of them again except Rhaegar. And Lewyn, Varys noticed, who actually regarded the young princess with amusement, perhaps even a sense of pride in his watchful eyes. "Just like the Lannisters," she finished.

Struggling to stand upright, the King grabbed his cane and walked forward to his younger brother. Setting the cane aside, leaning against the table, Varys watched Rhaegar's legs buckle while he placed both hands upon the shoulders of Prince Viserys, and thought that one more unsteady second, and Lewyn would need to grab the King before he fell.

"That's your job, your duty, brother. To make it evident the right choice, to all the houses whose treason isn't already set in stone through blood or honor."

"I will not fail you, my brother." Prince Viserys bowed. "My King."

_You will fail,_ Varys thought, though his face betrayed nothing, _unless you have help. The men who will accompany you will see that you succeed, young Prince, despite your best efforts...because of my best efforts. But even then, nothing is certain, because war is still war..._

* * *

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**Notes and responses:** Thanks to all for reading and reviewing this fic thus far.

As to any ships which may or may not occur...I expect this story to be an expansive one, spanning beyond Season 8 in terms of timeline. Any "ships" which may or may not occur will serve the plot and characters...not the other way around. Any ships which may occur may be permanent, or temporary, lasting only a few chapters. They could be toxic, or healthy, expected or unexpected, willing or arrange...but I will clarify that the endgame of this story is the story itself, not any specific ship.


	4. The Dreams of Lions

**Jon**

"That sparring dummy's seen better days, hasn't it?"

Rather than respond, Jon Stark struck harder and harder at the straw dummy, straining his body, feeling with satisfaction of each cut, each swing his sword burying itself deeper into the wooden poles hidden beneath the matted straws. He'd wished no one would bother him, though as clarity returned to his mind, Jon realized that battering every dummy in the castle courtyard into oblivion was probably not the best way to go about for solitude. If anything, he ought be lucky it was Uncle Benjen who'd found him, and not the Lady of Winterfell.

"I'm sorry Uncle Benjen."

"Jon...Jon...," Benjen patted him on the shoulder, "sorry for what?"

The young ward surveyed the row of battered straw and wood.

"Ser Rodrik's going to have his hands full replacing these," Jon gestured, but his uncle merely smirked.

"Seems like you're going to have your hands full with Ser Rodrik soon. No need to apologize to me, Jon. Though I'd hope next time you feel frisky, rather than pounding your head in the sand out here by yourself, grab little Tommen and show him the way around a spar. He's getting to that age, you know."

"Aye, uncle," Jon said, relieved that his uncle wasn't mad at him. Though his heart still did not stand content, it beat easier now. Uncle Benjen always seemed to have a way with him, to calm him down, talk him off the ledge. "I'll try, though I won't force the boy."

"Someone's going to have to one day, him and Kendron both," Benjen said, eyes distant and sad. Wrapping his arm around his ward, the Lord of Winterfell walked the boy away from prying eyes. "Is it my wife again? I'll have a talk with her...don't think she'll listen, but I'll try anyway."

Jon shook his head. "The Lady Cersei's fine. She hasn't looked in my direction for quite a few moons now. I'd prefer it that way, really."

"We all do, I think." His uncle stopped walking, and look sadly at the gates leading out of his castle, his home, their home, whether all of Lord Benjen Stark's family wanted to be here or not. "You've heard the whispers, then."

"Aye," Jon admitted, after a brief moment of hesitation. "I overheard Ser Rodrik speaking with Maester Luwin earlier this morning." He looked his uncle in his dark blue eyes. "Is it true? The war? My fath...Rhaegar?"

Uncle's lips twitched nervously. "I don't know. No one knows. But the Queen...and her Council...they believe so."

The dark haired boy buried his head in his hands, this moment he'd dreaded his entire life cast as suddenly upon him as a midsummer's snow squall. Ever since he could remember, every day he trained with Ser Rodrik in the courtyard, Jon had pictured the day his cousin Robb would call him south and name him to his Kingsguard. They always had a natural affinity towards the other, Robb treating him more like a brother than a cousin whenever he came more, more so than the rest of their cousins in Winterfell. But all those dreams were had disappeared on the rocky shores of some gods forsaken islands like a dusting of summer snow. A strong Prince, then King, like Robb could afford to have the son of Rhaegar Targaryen by his side. But a girl like Sansa? It was much safer for her for Jon to stay north, and safer still for him to ride even further north.

"I can't...," Jon said, gasping for air, "I must..." A heavy huff, before he made his decision. "I'll ride north, to the Wall, tonight. I'll join the Watch, so he can't have me. So he can't use me to betray Sans...the Queen...to betray our family."

"You don't...," Benjen began immediately, puzzled by his young charge. He'd never brought the subject of the Night's Watch to his uncle before, though he'd thought about it many a night. Jon had always assumed that as sad as he would be at such a fate for his nephew, Benjen had also been resigned to it since his the day his other uncle, the King Eddard Stark, First of his Name, first brought him north to Winterfell. So it surprised him, uncle's hesitation at the mention.

"Is it...do you not trust the Lord Commander?"

"I wouldn't say...the Watch is the Watch." He'd never seen uncle so solemn nor still...not even while he bore the torment of Lady Cersei's occasional...well, more than occasional...bouts of indignity towards her lord husband. Finally, the Lord of Winterfell looked his blue eyes back at Jon. "I know you Jon. You don't need to join the Watch, for me to trust you. If Rhaegar wants you, he'll have to come to Winterfell and take you." Uncle's hands balled into two fists. "I'd be happy for him to try."

Again, Jon was reminded of why he agonized so, looking into the eyes of this sad man...the closest thing to a father he'd ever known, and seeing the cost Rhaegar Targaryen had reaped from him so cruelly...a father, a sister...and now, both his elder brothers. What did it feel like, Jon wondered, to be the last surviving child of Lord Rickard Stark?

"I'm sorry, uncle," he gasped. "I don't mean to plague you with my troubles, you have enough to worry about already."

He felt Benjen's grip against the back of his neck, even as he watched uncle's eyes grow swollen with redness. _He wouldn't cry,_ Jon thought. _If he didn't cry the day he heard the news, he won't cry now. He'll be strong. Far stronger than I._

"Your troubles are my troubles," uncle whispered to him. "Not because they're the realm's troubles, but because you know you're as much of a son to me as Tommen and Kendron, don't you know that, Jon? As much Rykka and Myrcella, you're my own child."

"I'm a bastard," he muttered, ignoring the forlorn look upon his uncle's face as he spoke. "No better than one..."

Uncle struck him. It was rare, he'd only done it on the worst occasions, when Jon had let his temper get the better of him.

"My brother brought you back to Winterfell," Benjen snarled, yet cried as he spoke. "My brother...he wasn't just my King, he was my brother, my last surviving sibling. I was but a child, and you were a babe, wrapped in a blanket knit with the sigils of stars and suns...my brother...my King, he _knelt_ before me, he begged me to raise you as my own, before I'd even had a wife, or my own children..."

"I'm sorry, uncle..."

"Don't you say such things again, Jon. Don't insult me, don't insult Ned...Lyanna...we are _Starks_..._you _are a _Stark_..."

Jon nodded. "I swore, from my earliest memories, to defend my King." The man who brought him north, before he'd ever had a memory. The large man, the cold man Jon remembered from the King's few visits to Winterfell...the good man who, when Eddard Stark talked to him, he spoke to him almost as if Jon were his own child, he remembered. Rather than a bastard legitimized belatedly after the fact.

"You may get your opportunity soon," Benjen cautioned, his face suddenly stone again, the cold, hard Lord of Winterfell.

"Queen Sansa summons us," Jon asks. Uncle nodded in return.

"Her Regency Council believes Jon Connington will lead the Greyjoys south of the Neck. We ride south within a fortnight, gather with all the northern bannermen at Moat Cailin, and defeat the invader wherever he seeks battle."

Looking at his sword, gleaming against the late afternoon sun, Jon Stark would swear before all the northern and southern gods, gods either side of his blood would have worshiped, "aye, and I will serve the North, Lord Stark. I will serve my Queen, I will serve my family...my _true_ family."

Uncle looked at him, his dark blue eyes measuring his words as Jon had never recalled in his short life, and he wondered whether the Lord of Winterfell truly trusted him, despite all his protestations of the fact. Because of who his father was, because of the poison in his blood, borne from hundreds of years of Valyrian _tradition_...Jon was not ignorant, he knew that many of his own people in the North would wish him dead, or at least locked up or vowed out and harmless atop the Wall. Certainly Lady Cersei. But Uncle Benjen was giving him a chance, and he would be grateful, he would not let him down.

And uncle's face remained grave in spite of all his pledges. "There'll be war soon," the Lord of Winterfell proclaimed. "It's an awful thing, but better war than surrender to the enemy. I do trust you, Jon...but you've never seen war. It'll be awful, it won't be anything you've ever seen..."

"I'll be ready," Jon swore.

"You'll march with us, as far as Moat Cailin." Benjen turned away from him, his expression as grim as Jon has ever seen. "You understand though, don't you? If you choose to march further south, and give battle...were the worst to happen you understand your _true_ duty to your family, your Queen, don't you?"

Jon nodded, needing no reminder of what's plagued his mind ever since he'd heard the news of the King's death.

_Fight, to the very end. Die, before being captured._

"I do."

* * *

**Catelyn**

_Queen Dowager._

What strange words. Occasionally in her life Catelyn Stark had expected to outlive her husband, because he was older, if only by a few years. And because men fought, while most women, whether a Queen or miller's wife, prayed to one set of gods or another while their husbands raised swords in the name of their King. Or, in the case of her husband, the actual king, to the throne and crown which had taken over his life since practically the first day of their marriage.

But widowhood Cat had always imagined a sweeter pill, sitting bittersweet but content a gray haired matriarch, proudly looking upon a brood of children and grandchildren, at a son, strong and grown, sitting on the throne that was his due, because of the wars of his father...and her father. The Dowager Queen would have felt satisfied to rest, her mind at peace, knowing that Robb would have been ready for his inheritance, his duty...and he would need little need of protection from his mother.

But Sansa...Cat's heart broke whenever she saw her daughter now, an innocent child whose childhood had just been forever robbed from her. Seeing the trepidation in her eyes, her fear, her complete unpreparedness for a burden she'd never expected to receive, one which Sansa's parents had never thought of preparing her for...the Queen Dowager would blame herself for her negligence...except how could anyone ask a mother to so surely anticipate the death of her eldest son?

_And so many precious years with Robb wasted, with that fruitless trip to Dorne._

So today, sitting in the throne room with her father, Petyr, and all the rest, she would try her best to protect Sansa from all the horrors of the world, because Cat knew in her heart the price of failure...that it would mean not just the death of her daughter, but herself, and probably the remainder of her children, her father...by the gods, even her little nephew Robin. Three great houses, wiped out by the enemies her father and husband had made for them, while Cat herself was a little girl, married to a strange young boy for the sake of the throne she sat in now.

"Lord Tyrion," the Dowager Queen heard her daughter shakily whisper, "Lord Kevan...the Crown welcomes you to King's Landing."

"Your Grace," the older, uncle of the Lord of Casterly Rock bowed properly.

"Your Grace," the Lord of Casterly Rock repeated, rather graciously, Catelyn thought. From what she'd heard of the Imp Lord of the West, she would've expected him to be hiccuping as he knelt, scents of fermented grapes and other, fouler scents violating her daughters nostrils the moment the Half Man opened his mouth. "My condolences on your father, Queen Sansa. He came through Casterly Rock on his way to deal with the Greyjoys. His Grace seemed...a good man...a fine warrior...he did not deserve his death amongst those pirates."

Perhaps it was just a product of her lowered expectations, but Cat thought the Imp almost handsome, his square jaw evenly balanced and eyes earnest for a creature such as his kind. But then she remembered what her father always warned her about the Lannisters...that the lions were always beautiful...and their fangs always twice as deadly.

_Even their imps._

"Lord Tyrion," the Queen Dowager spoke, as agreed by the Small Council, "they say you are a clever man."

The young lord shrugged. "Many people say many things, Your Grace. I've long learned to ignore the opinions of others, good or ill. Though, as you can surely imagine, my fair Queen...ahem, my fair Queens, such gossip I hear regarding my own fair lordship tends to be biased towards the latter."

"Were you clever enough to know of the Targaryen conspiracy with the Greyjoys," her goodbrother Jon asked more harshly from next to her. "Your king died, less than two fortnights after he was your guest in Casterly Rock. Did you know, were you already planning to betray him then?"

"Your Grace, Lord Arryn, I assure you..."

The Half Man protested, as they'd all expected, this tired charade that her daughter would need not only to watch, but to master one day. As if Cat herself was any master of the games around her husband's throne, or Ned for the matter, else he and their firstborn son would still be alive.

"Our defenses are ready," Kevan Lannister added. "Even as Lord Tyrion and I stand before you now, the bannermen of the west are prepared to resist the invaders."

"Lord Gawen Westerling leads your men," Sansa asked, her voice sounding less timid than before.

"He does," Tyrion replied, intelligent eyes studying his new Queen, though to what ends, Cat could not guess. "He's a fine man, Your Grace, and a good leader of men."

"Lord Gawen met Stannis Baratheon on his march back east," Kevan said. "They've coordinated the defensive strategies of the Westerlands before Stannis departed."

"There won't be any need for the defenses of the Westerlands," Jon Arryn scoffed, still not trusting the two lions before them, Cat believed.

"Connington has landed his men further north," Petyr said.

"North," Tyrion asked, his surprise seemingly genuine. "Where north?"

"North of Seagard," Renly said, seated with the Council despite his dismissal, because of sweet little Sansa's compassion, though as Jon and father reminded her, there was the practical consequence of her daughter's actions, in that at least the man remained to act as Master of Whispers without wearing the title, until his replacement was named. "By way of the Cape of Eagles."

"With up to thousand Dornishmen," Petyr added, the words sending a chill down her spine, "along with Unsullied mercenaries of the east."

"I assume Stannis is marching to meet them," Tyrion said, his small, beady eyes moving and glaring at the thin air above the table, as if he were picturing a map of Westeros in his head.

"He is, along with the Knights of the Vale," Hoster said. And the men of the Riverlands, Cat knew, but they did not trust the Lannisters with that much detail just yet. "But Stannis's armies are tired, they barely escaped the Iron Islands alive, and they've been fighting or marching nonstop ever since the war began."

The smaller Lannister raised an eyebrow skeptically towards the table, as if he actually belonged here with the rest of them. "I assume this is where you'll be asking for our help."

"We shouldn't have to ask," Cat replied crossly, "it's your duty to your Queen and your crown." Ned never chided her, the few times she found herself impatient with all the subtleties of court, that had been Jon's job, but she'd always assumed the words came from her husband all the same. She knew the necessity of all the politics, better than Ned, if she were to be honest with herself, the fact that he was more reserved with his impatience more a testimony to his cold, northern nature rather than his actual temperament, but as she held her tongue from far worse before these strangers just now, Cat reminded herself that this was not for her sake, but for Sansa's, and her siblings'.

"I understand relations between the Crown and the Westerlands have been estranged since the Rebellion," Archmaester Ebrose offered, trying to be helpful.

"Yes, after you banished our lords and heirs to oblivion," Kevan muttered, more to himself, but audible to all the Council and its Queen.

"Tywin Lannister is Lord Commander of the Night's Watch," Petyr reminded all gathered, "and his son Jaime First Ranger. Be it at the edge of the world, I'd hardly call such..._honors_...oblivion."

A subtle reminder of the past, and warning regarding the present. Ned had been wary of all the lions he'd placed in exile taking up so much power so close to Winterfell. The Watch was the Watch, and oaths were oaths, but he'd always intended a trip to the Wall to check the Lannisters..._after_ the Greyjoys were dealt with. A darker thought haunted her mind, whether or not somehow Tywin Lannister could have allied with Rhaegar and the other traitor houses to betray her husband. It was not impossible. Though she'd never met the man, her father had always spoke of his erstwhile rival with the utmost respect, if given warily, and Cat wondered whether the man who'd inspired songs before the age of twenty in extinguishing two entire houses, women, children, and servants alike, would not be above betraying a King from afar...especially considering how his son already stabbed one in the back in cold blood.

"Lord Tyrion is Lord Tywin's proper heir," they all heard the Queen speak. "He sits in Casterly Rock, he resides not in oblivion...so I'm confused as to your choice of words, Lord Kevan...unless you still don't see Lord Tyrion as the proper heir to Lord Tywin?"

It was all delivered so perfectly, so innocently...and completely unrehearsed; Cat couldn't help but beam a small gesture of pride at her daughter. Both Sansa and Bran were clever, in their own ways, it was true. And while both children were very shy, the Queen Dowager couldn't but help wonder whether Bran would've ever found the courage to speak aloud his more contentious thoughts, especially while he remained a child. _Perhaps that was why father pushed for her,_ she wondered.

Chastened, the entire Council watched as Kevan Lannister face retreat from its prior position of boldness.

"I mean no offence, Your Grace. King Eddard's justice was fair, I do not question it."

"You yourself have benefited from the late King's justice, have you not, Lord Warden?"

Petyr asked this with a grin. It had been an unspoken agreement with the other regents that little Petyr Baelish, born from the lowest house amongst them, seated upon the lowest position on the Small Council, would engage in the grubby, so called horse-trading aspects of the Council that men like Jon Arryn or even her father looked down upon, necessarily as it was to secure Sansa's throne. Not that Petyr minded, Catelyn surmised, her lifelong friend always eager to help the Crown in whichever way possible, and the Queen Dowager well knew that one did not rule with clean hands. Ned had tried, certainly, but to survive, for the sake of all her children, Cat had to force herself to confront the fact that her husband had tried...then failed.

"It's an honor," the older lord replied, the eyes of all upon him, including the Half Man's. "I do my duty."

"Did you," her father asked querulously. "Did you support your King, when his life was in peril on Pyke?"

"The King did not call my banners to Pyke," Kevan stuttered uneasily, "I did not know His Grace's life was in peril, until it was too late. By the time we heard of the trap, our ships would have been destroyed had we tested the Dornish fleet."

They all watched Tyrion watching his uncle, awaiting his reaction. _Would he betray his kin now? Would be true to his Lannister colors?_ "I'm no expert on military matters," Tyrion finally ventured, fingers tapping nervously against the far end of the table, "but I do believe it a miracle my uncle was able to get Stannis and his army back safely onto the mainland."

"And the Warden of the West has the Crown's gratitude," Sansa said, her delicate voice confident. This particular assurance hadn't been planned beforehand, but it would seem her daughter was learning the where, what, and when in asserting herself in such discussions, Cat realized with a growing sense of pride.

"Lord Tyrion," Petyr continued, but not before first giving Sansa an almost fatherly look of support, "you are satisfied with your Uncle's position as Warden?"

The decision had been temporary then, to name Tywin Lannister's younger brother the Warden to the West while Tyrion was still a child, and Catelyn supposed that the state of affairs had yet to change because...well, the little Lord Paramount in Casterly Rock never thought to _ask_ for his other title back. And rather than confront the issue, Ned decided to ignore it, as he seemed apt to do with all things concerning the Westerlands since sending their lord and heir to the Wall. Was it guilt, Cat had always wondered, that his pronouncement had been too harsh at the time, which held him back, because though she wasn't about to entirely trust the two Lannisters gathered before her, she did believe the older man's claim of loyalty.

Or perhaps it was pride, her late husband insistent to the end that he did not need the help of the kingdom he'd once spurned in putting down the Greyjoy Rebellion. If so, then certainly he would not be the first king to die because of pride, yet it seemed ever so unfair to Cat, the cruelty that the humblest, least arrogant man perhaps to ever sit on the Iron Throne would still be susceptible to its poisons.

The Half Man answered Petyr's question thoughtfully. "It's a peculiar situation, but not without precedent. I familiar with the histories of all the wars and battles, of this land, to be sure. But I'm not a knight, I'm not much with a sword, or hammer, or any peculiar weapon, really." His little eyes looked about the table nervously, perhaps searching for an invisible glass of wine. "I'm sure the lords of the west will abide by their vows, if necessary. But I'm sure they'd much _prefer_ to abide by my uncle's command in the field, particularly now, while we're at war."

"And your oaths to your Queen," Petyr continued, "they remain true."

"By the grace of the Seven," Kevan answered first, "they do, Your Grace, Lord Baelish."

All their eyes turned to Tyrion, who merely shrugged. "I suppose I'll be loyal, Your Graces. I've never had much a taste for treason...the whole concept's a bit of a reach for me, to be honest."

Cat turned to her father first, upon hearing this puzzling response from the man, but Hoster Tully's eyes merely danced nonchalantly, as if he were holding his face sternly in order to hold back a bout of laughter.

"They say you're a clever man," Renly said, his voice pleasant despite the matter at hand. "They say you train your eyes through day and night on endless books and tomes." The Dowager Queen grit her teeth at the sound of his voice, she would admire Renly's composure, were she not still bitter that his failures had caused the deaths of her husband and firstborn.

"They aren't wrong."

"Well," Renly said, standing, bowing before the dwarf, before handing him a small seal, "I hope your ears are as well trained as your eyes, Lord Tyrion."

The small man's eyes widened as he understood the import of the gesture. Was it natural, or feigned? Lannisters could be cruel, but could they be outright actors?

"The Queen and her Council offer you the position of Master of Whispers, Lord Tyrion," Jon Arryn said sternly, making the offer on behalf of his Queen. He then turned to Kevan, without waiting for even an acceptance from their new colleague. "As your nephew will be occupied with his new duties in the capital, Lord Kevan will remain the Warden of the West for the foreseeable future, and he will assist the crown in the war against the Targaryen invaders."

As the mismatched twin lions of the west offered their acceptance and gratitude, Cat noticed Petyr observing her keenly, rather than their guests, one eyebrow raised skeptically at his childhood friend.

_"I've heard little remarkable about Lord Kevan," she had remarked to him, after the Council, which was to say, Jon and her father, had already decided upon their course of action. "He's true to his wife, he keeps to the Seven. But the Half-Man...the things they say of him...can we trust the Lannisters, Petyr?"_

_"We can trust no one," Petyr had replied._

Yet, the Queen Dowager had no choice, with the war so close.

* * *

**Varys**

He'd expected the Prince to make some silly dramatic gesture upon landing on the shores of the country where he was born. Perhaps he'd raise his sword mightily into the air after stepping foot onto the rocky shores of Massey's Hook, or perhaps bend down to touch thoughtfully the thin strip of sand bordering this surprisingly pacific bend of the Narrow Sea. But Viserys did none of that, merely striding arrogantly over the terrain as if it'd belonged to him and him alone, as if he'd been a prince of this land all his life, _in fact_ as well as in name. And while Varys knew the stupidity of such dramatics as well as any man, acting was not an entirely useless tool to be possessed by a Prince, if only to show the people he led that he cared, that he possessed the same human qualities, wants and yearnings and urges, that they all shared.

"Lord Anders Yronwood of Dorne," the burly chested exile of Bear Island whispered to Viserys as they greeted the small army after several days marching down the Wendwater.

"Lord Anders," Viserys said, raising one hand forward so that the lord could kiss the ruby ring perched upon his finger, as if he himself were the King rather than his older brother. Varys had thought to chide him on such ostentatious displays with the lords, but figured he'd save his breath for more important battles with the prince.

"Dorne stands with you, my Prince," Anders replied, his frame larger than even Ser Jorah's.

"Good to hear," Viserys said. "I can't say I'm surprised, Lord Anders, nearly six and ten years of continued treason must weigh heavily upon the soul..."

"It is good to see you are well," Varys interrupted hastily, "my good lord."

"Lord Spider," Anders grunted. Varys did not expect the warrior knight to like him, few of their kind did, but most were smart enough to understand their inherent need for the services only he could offer.

"I see many of the flags of Dorne in the field below," Varys remarked, squinting his eyes at the sight of the small army from atop the hill they gathered upon. "But where is the falling star of House Dayne?"

Anders Yronwood sneered in contempt. "Lord Edric is a boy, and squire to Beric Dondarrion. When Beric called the Marcher lords north to join Stannis, the boy called his bannermen to join them in turn."

"A troubling absence," Varys said, thinking out loud, calculating the arithmetics of their accounting without one of the more powerful houses in Dorne.

"Traitors," Viserys spat angrily. "I assure you, they'll be dealt with after the war, Lord Anders. And Starfall is quite a prize to be had, a fitting reward for a deserving soldier."

"You have a son," Varys asked, the implication clear, "do you not...Cletus, if I remember?"

"Your memory serves you well," the gruff Dornishman affirmed. "He shipped with Prince Oberyn and Lord Connington north to Pyke. We will see each other again below the gates of King's Landing.

"In time," Varys said softly, but with as much authority as he could muster in his voice.

"Or no time at all," Anders replied, grinning proudly. His accent was less pronounced than most Dornishmen he'd known, Varys mused as he listened. "We caught a scouting party south of here two days ago, the Errols and the Evenstar's bannermen, marching north to King's Landing. We whipped the advance scouts, found their main army, and drove them back to the sea! The road to the Blackwater ought be clear from here, my Prince."

"Good," Varys said dismissively. "I hope the roads west to Fawnton ring just as clear."

"Fawnton," Anders replied, confused and more than a little miffed, Varys thought, at having his modest conquests so casually dismissed. "Why Fawnton? That's the opposite direction!"

"A capital does not make a crown, my good Lord. To win Seven Kingdoms, we must _win_ the seven kingdoms, or at least as much of them as possible. The Lannisters, the Tyrells..."

"Fuck the Tyrells," Anders spat into the ground, the Dornishmen he led nodding approvingly.

"Yes, the Tyrells, I'm afraid His Grace will need them to rule the Reach. And if not them, then perhaps the Tarly's, or the Hightowers, or even the Fossoways...but regardless, those houses, and the bannermen they'd bring with them to our cause, lie in the direction of Fawnton, and beyond."

Noting Anders's displeasure, watching the thick necked knight turning away from Varys in the direction of Viserys and Ser Jorah, Varys was keen to emphasize, "these orders come directly from the King, my good lord."

"Is this true?"

"It is," Viserys answered rather reluctantly, staring at the ground. "We're to avoid King's Landing until we have a larger army."

"The plan is to make a tour of the Reach and the Westerlands," Ser Jorah continued, explaining to the Dornish lord, "gathering support where we can, fending off the King's enemies where we can, piecemeal, before they can gather and gain in numbers combined."

He was a valuable asset, Varys thought, a clear headed leader who did as well as anyone in keeping the Prince's temperament under control, save Rhaegar. A mainstay in the King's court abroad, Jorah Mormont had sailed ahead of time, first to Driftmark, escorting the Velaryon men and ships down to the Wendwater Bay, then ferrying the armies of the Crownlands, Rosby's, Rykker's, and Hoggs south to be the first to meet the small contingent of Targaryen loyalists landed from Pentos, a modest force by itself consisting of a few hundred exiled knights, and a few thousand more mercenaries of the Golden Company.

"Prince Oberyn and Lord Connington will march south between the Blue Fork and the Green Fork. They should have landed many fortnights ago, and Stannis has probably marched directly from Kayce to meet them."

"I'd venture to guess that the Queen's Council expected us to invade further north," Jorah continued where Varys left off, "by Maidenpool, so as to cut off the Neck from the south. But Stannis's attentions will be divided, until he's heard of the invasion here. With any luck, he'll be doomed by indecision."

"If Oberyn and Connington see an opportunity," Varys said, "they'll give battle. If not, they'll gather what support they can in the Crownlands, avoiding battle but pushing ever closer to King's Landing. This buys us time to ascertain the support of the South and West whilst we march near the Mander, where provisions will be bountiful. We will then sweep north, bypass King's Landing, cross the Upper Blackwater, and approach the Crownlands from southeast of the Stoney Sept."

"Bypass King's Landing," Anders asked impatiently. "Even if we gather a hundred thousand men from the Reach and the Westerlands?"

"The objective's not the enemy's capital, and a costly siege," Jorah answered calmly, "but to wipe out the enemy's armies. We'll have Stannis caught between two large armies somewhere between Harrenhal, Darry, and Duskendale."

"Connington's men and Oberyn's five thousand will also fend off any approach from the North. But it'll take time for them to gather, first to Winterfell, then to march south. We ought have Stannis and the core of the Queen's banners defeated by then, and the country will see through the tides of war who really rules the realm _in fact_. If Benjen Stark is foolish enough to give battle, so be it. If the people of King's Landing see another way through suffering a painful siege destined for defeat...so be it too."

It did not please his stomach, the idea of a riotous mob storming the Red Keep and presenting the spoiled Prince standing before them the head of a little girl, below the gates of King's Landing...but war was war. And better one innocent girl than tens of thousands of men, women, and children, innocent or not.

"It's an interesting plan," Anders said, pacing the ground below as he contemplated what they'd told him. "It might work. But it's too complicated."

"Wars are not won by a single battle, Lord Anders," Varys said. While the Dornishman was being trying, he was far from the worst Varys had encountered, the Spider's reserves of patience far closer to infinite than most. "And I expect there will be more complications to come, ones we have no way of anticipating here and now, where we stand.

"The Usurpers' Rebellion wasn't complicated," Anders countered. "I doubt Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon had any grand plans in mind, they just charged ahead, and won battles, until they reached the capital."

"You're not wrong," Varys said, his voice as calm as ever. "But they had the benefit of a King who'd turned most the country against him, marching through lands who saw in the Iron Throne an old man mad and cruel, rather than an innocent child. The girl Queen Sansa may be weak, but she paints a most sympathetic figure, and while many may plot against her afterwards, in a time of peace, they'll find it shockingly easy to rally behind her in the meantime against foreign invaders...until we've convinced them, of course, and not with swords alone, but with patient words, the promise of a just reward...and more swords behind said words and promises by the day."

It was clever, Varys had to admit to himself, for the Small Council to appoint the most _southern_ of Eddard Stark's children...boy or girl, as the late King's heir. He knew better than most that such reasoning as he'd named had been behind her coronation, though not the _only_ reason. And had Ned Stark and his eldest son somehow managed to die simultaneously during a time of peace, without the cloud of an impending Targaryen invasion, they would have most assuredly named the girl's younger brother to the throne.

"These are the orders of your King," Jorah said, stepping forward threateningly when Anders Yronwood did not respond. "Do you deny them?"

"No," the burly man finally answered, and surprisingly, a hearty laugh emerged from his lungs upon a face still bearing traces of youth. Anders clapped Jorah on the back, a gesture of appreciation only one seasoned warrior could give to another. "Well, let's get on with it then."

* * *

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**Notes & Responses:** No Jon in the first few chapters, but we finally see him now. Everything is different...yet everything seems similar. As for Rhaegar...I'll just say that fourteen years of exile and mulling over his slaughtered children probably hasn't improved his moral bearings...though he still seems a lot more even headed than someone like Viserys. And he's certainly looking to be a better guardian figure for Dany compared to Viserys, even as he will certainly seek to marry her off for his political benefit.

Happy Holidays to all, and Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah to those who celebrate either!


	5. A Wolf Encircled

**Trystane**

The cold was shit. That much Trystane Martell had already decided in this short and first outing, so to speak, away from home.

"No," Trystane muttered to himself, clutching a small bundle of wood in his arms, his uncle not even trusting him to gather kindling in the surrounding forest without several knights accompanying him, "those storms were worse."

He would swear that he'd seen the sun maybe all but twice as the fleet awaited the battle south of the Iron Islands. They'd not joined the Greyjoys in ambushing the northern King and his armies, so as to have some cause to protest their innocence, in the event the ambush failed, uncle Oberyn had explained. Which meant boredom, waiting endless days upon their ship, staring out towards gloomy shores and uglier villages, though Trystane was a smart enough lad to understand that boredom was better than dying. Not that he feared war, like most boys his age Trystane yearned for the glory of battle one day, for fair maidens to sing songs of his strength and bravery, but the youngest child of Doran Martell also had enough sense to understand that he was still far to young to do serve any purpose except dying uselessly, in the event of a real battle.

"Still no word from Prince Viserys?"

His uncle shook his head at the pot-bellied red headed lord across the fire. "Not since they met with the Yronwoods."

Trystane looked back towards Jon Connington's horse, and saw the head of the young fellow Dornishman cleaning its saddle pop up at the mention of his family. Cletus Yronwood was barely a few years older than Trystane, but those few years made all the difference. Cletus was a full-fledged squire, fully prepared to fight and bleed or draw blood the day battle finally arrived before them, while Trystane was sure his uncle would seek to keep him sheltered for the remainder of the war, unless the war was to last for many years.

Cletus was also Quentyn's friend, and while his older brother saw the Yronwoods as a second family, having been fostered west in their keep for much of his life, the heir to the Stone Way was little more than a stranger to Trystane.

"We need to march," Connington muttered crossly. "Hells, the Northmen may get here before Stannis the way we're waiting."

"Then we retreat," Oberyn muttered, indifferent to the man's complaints, "compliments of the ships so generously provided by my brother."

"Your brother swore his support to King Rhaegar," Jon said, and Trystane wondered whether tonight, after so many contentious nights, was finally to be the night when the two men would come to blows. If so, he pitied the pot-bellied old lord. They said Jon Connington had once been one of the most dashing young knights of the realm, riding by Rhaegar's side before the rebellion, Prince and lord as close as brothers. Did exile make Rhaegar fat too, he wondered.

A darker thought occurred to him. _It'll be exile for me, if we lose this war that my uncle seems none too eager to fight. If I survive, that is._

Though, if the Targaryens couldn't even conquer Dorne with their dragons, what harm could a victorious Stark army do against them, unless by some chance they bewitch an army of direwolves, larger than elephants, he remembered Arianna telling him about the creatures when he was a child, all the way south across the Wall, past King's Landing, through the Boneway and into the Water Gardens.

"What are you smirking about, boy?"

Uncle Oberyn smirked himself, pointedly and purposefully ignoring Connington, whose face was growing as red as his thinning hair.

"Elephants," Trystane said carefully, sparing a careful eye at the exiled Lord of Griffin's Roost, who rolled his eyes at his childish response.

Connington scoffed. "Viserys wanted to bring elephants to Massey's Hook. I'm glad His Grace talked the Prince out of that idea, though...at this point I'll take half a dozen elephants in exchange for five thousand lazy and useless Dornishmen."

Again, Trystane wondered whether the two men would come to blows now.

"You may be eager to waste the lives of Rhaegar's slave soldiers," Oberyn muttered. "The men and boys I bring are brothers to me, all of us, from the Princes, to the Yronwoods and Jordayne's and Vaiths, to all the thousands of Sands." He took a swig of the camp ale, and didn't grimace, even though Trystane knew he hated the taste, much more preferring the sweeter wines of their home. "We will not advance, not until we can be assured of at least one more great house south of the Trident."

He knew this was a war that uncle Oberyn was less than enthusiastic towards since before they'd departed Dorne. It'd been several moons at sea before he'd finally ventured to ask, one of the dozens of nights sailing uselessly around the Iron Islands.

_"Why are we rebelling again? I thought we made our peace with King Eddard after the Rebellion."_

_"Yes, but the Starks insulted us. They insulted your sister."_

_From his expression, Trystane could discern that uncle Oberyn cared little for the excuses he'd just voiced._

_"I don't blame them," he'd replied with a smirk. "She's a...a bitch, honestly. I'd insult her too."_

_Oberyn chuckled. "You would, wouldn't you? If you weren't terrified she'd smack your head halfway to Qarth."_

_"I don't understand why she wants so badly to be Queen. And Rhaegar...he's an old man, isn't he? He'd be old enough to be her father."_

_His uncle raised his glass of wine in Trystane's direction, and for a fleeting second he'd thought he'd get to sneak a sip of the concoction._

_"You're a clever boy, Trystane."_

_"I'm not." He'd heard the maesters call him dull, hiding behind the curtains of his father's solar._

_"You've got good instincts then." Uncle's eyes grew melancholy, as they were prone to do at times, the sadness as sudden as a bout of lightning, and often dissipating just as instantly. "My sister, Doran's sister wanted to be Queen too. Look all the good it did her, now Doran wants to put Arianne through the same shit."_

"If we lose this war because of you, Martell," Connington fumed, "your generous brother Doran will be the one to explain to His Grace why his bannermen refused to fight and die for their King. And you'll be the one to explain to your brother_ and liege lord_ why you refused to fight the war you are bound to fight by oath."

His uncle chuckled, and finished his glass of ale.

"What," the former Hand to King Aerys challenged, leaning into the fire separating the men. "Afraid say what you're thinking, Martell?"

He laughed again, tossing the small chalice into the dirt. "I don't know what you'll tell Rhaegar, _Griff_, nor do I much care." Uncle winked at Trystane, before continuing. "But all I have to say to my brother is that...well, I'm not as dumb as you. Don't think he'll take my head either, for speaking the truth."

* * *

**Sansa**

"All those lemoncakes will make you fat."

"Arya!"

"What?" Her bratty little sister shrugged her shoulders. "Queens get fat too."

Beside Arya, Shireen Baratheon giggled nervously, caught in the awkward spot between laughing at her best friend's jibes, or displeasing her sister the Queen.

"No, you idiot," Jeyne cried defensively from across the table, though she'd dropped the lemoncake she was eating. "Only the most beautiful girls in the world can be Queens. Or their favorite ladies in waiting."

"That's not true," Shireen moused nervously. "Queen Rhaenyra was fat."

"What," Jeyne scoffed haughtily. "She was called '_the Realm's Delight_', you stupid girl, she wasn't fat like Samtha."

_Gods be damned_. Sansa always told her to be nice to Shireen, but of course, Jeyne never listened. _I miss Samtha,_ Sansa thought. They'd sent the poor girl to Storm's End, a hostage of Stannis's castellan now, for the crime of being entirely ignorant of and having nothing to do with her uncle's choice to treason.

"She was," Bran added unhelpfully, "later in life, during the Dance of Dragons."

"She was plumper than the pigeons they serve in Highgarden," Arya said, a evil glint in her eye as she looked towards Sansa, "when they fed her to the dragons."

"Now now dear Princess," the Lady Margaery said with a smile, patting her sister's hand gently, "perhaps now's not the best time to speak of feeding any Queens to any dragons..."

Bran. "Rhaegar doesn't have any dragons, everyone knows that."

_No_, Sansa thought, _he'll just take my head with his sword, if I'm lucky_. And though her friends at the supper table all knew that Rhaegar's horrible men had landed in both the north and south, Westerosi and terrible mercenaries from Essos alike, they didn't know that practically all of Dorne had also rallied to the Targaryen cause. Then there was Mace Tyrell, Margaery's father. Thought they dared not say it themselves, to her or to each other before the Small Council, Sansa could tell they all feared that the war could be lost entirely were the Reach to declare for Rhaegar too.

"It's still war," Jeyne protested, her large eyes betraying her terrible fright behind them. "What if they attack King's Landing," Jeyne asked, looking at Sansa, as if she had any answers, as if after a few moons of being named a Queen she would suddenly and magically learn how to fight and win a war.

_Shut up shut up shut up shut up,_ she wanted to scream, to pull her hair out, to cry. But the Queen couldn't do any of that, the Queen could never lose her temper, her composure, so Sansa just looked sullenly at her half eaten lemoncake, having lost all her appetite for it.

Jon Arryn's voice echoed in her head from that afternoon. _"The Targaryen invaders were spotted marching from Massey's Hook towards the Wendwater. They could be at the capital within a week."_

_"What can we do," she'd asked uselessly, because everyone at the table knew already except the Queen._

_Jon Arryn. "Hopefully Stannis hasn't gone too far beyond the God's Eye. We can recall them, but it'll be a race to see who can get here in time."_

_Grandpapa. "It may come to a siege until then."_

_Jon. "And the Connington men could catch them in the rear, while they're retreating back to the capital."_

_Grandpapa. "Maybe it might be better for Stannis to beat them in the field first. We have enough provisions to hold off a siege for a fortnight, maybe two."_

_Lord Tyrion, the man most of her Council openly disdained, and still probably distrusted. "The Lannister men who accompanied myself and Lord Kevan to the capital will fight for their Queen, my lords, Your Grace. We will man the walls of King's Landing, regardless of where the Council decides to send Lord Stannis."_

"King's Landing's never fallen," Bran voiced, trying to help upon seeing the distress in his sister's face, as Sansa pondered the cruel fact that they would have rely on the _Lannisters_ for her family to survive this war. "Not without dragons, anyway. Or traitors inside the city."

"King's Landing won't fall!"

They all stopped talking, or eating. Bran's fork clanged onto the table, and Sansa realized that she'd screamed the words as she stood and pounded at the table with her two small palms, the sounds louder than anything she'd thought she could inflict.

"You're right," Arya said first. "It won't."

Was this a favor from her, for once? Did her sister finally see that she'd pushed her past her breaking point.

_Now she tries to help, after she's ruined supper. And my lemoncakes._

All Sansa wanted to do was to be alone. The Queen felt like she was climbing an endless mountain every day, barely the chance to listen to the Council meetings, remember how the wars were progressing, whose banners and which houses had declared for whom, where the soldiers were marching, and all those endless nightmares that would decide whether she'd live, along with all her family, or whether she'd die and be forever remembered as the stupid girl who'd lost a dynasty. Even at night, when she slept, Sansa imagined she could hear the voices of mother and grandpapa and Jon Arryn and even uncle Petyr, though he'd left half a fortnight ago to entreat with the Iron Bank, all blabbing on endlessly about her seven kingdoms and her war with a man whom she'd never met, who'd fled Westeros years before she was even born.

"We'll all be strong," Sansa said, her voice quivering, her fingers shaking, her chest feeling sunken after her eruption, her heart empty and sapped of all emotions, be it rage, or frustration...or fear. The most horrible fear. "The Lord Hand Arryn and the Lord Paramounts Hoster Tully and Stannis and they all have a plan, they will help us win the war, and repel the invaders, and..."

As she spoke, she felt like she lay standing inside a trance, her words not her own, but a recitation of a speech written to her, like the words her Council prepared for her occasional audiences before the Throne Room. She would have preferred solitude each night, to curl up in her bed and sleep the moment supper was over, but they told her_ a Queen not be isolated, she must be with her people, her family, her ladies..._

_Is this what a Queen is? A puppet? Forever bound to the commands of others?_

An older, raspier voice spoke once the Queen trailed off, lost for words.

"They _do_ have a plan, the Lords Arryn and Hoster Tully. I'd hope so, at least."

"Grandpapa!"

Bran and Arya called out his name. Sansa just stared at him, slackjawed, aghast that grandpapa may have just watched her lose her composure so badly just now, feeling not like a queen, but like a little girl caught red handed stealing candy from the kitchens. These weren't experiences Sansa was accustomed to, she was always so good at listening to her elders, at being good, being the girl they all wanted her to be. Until they made her a Queen.

"Your Grace," Hoster bowed slightly, hands playing with his long gray beard as he spoke. "The Queen is needed."

"Lord Hoster," Sansa mumbled, after catching her breath. Terrified to look at her siblings and friends, she turned and ran as fast as she could out of the room. She would have embraced grandpapa, except Sansa was too mortified and ashamed to do so, so she walked several steps ahead of him, barely holding back her tears, her screams, until she realized that she did not actually know where grandpapa wanted her to go.

Her feet stilled, and she turned back towards him, avoiding his eyes.

"What exactly does the Queen's Council require her for?"

"The Queen's grandfather is concerned about the Queen," his voice said gently, his hands placed upon her shoulders, trying to console her as if she were a hysterical infant. "The Queen's grandfather thought the Queen needed a respite from her family and her ladies."

"I'm sorry," Sansa mumbled.

"Sorry for what, sweet child?"

"I'm sure you all regret naming me, you'd take it back if you could." Daring herself to look up at grandpapa, Sansa took a deep breath and asked. "Is it too late to change your minds now? I won't protest, I promise..."

"Why would we do such a thing, dear girl?"

Her lips froze, and seeing a small bench nearby down the hall, grandpapa gestured her in its direction.

"I snapped," Sansa confessed, after they both sat down. A useless admission, she thought, because grandpapa had seen her do it, why else would he have called her away, except because she wasn't even fit to eat supper with her family and friends. "I lost my patience."

"You did. Your kingdoms have been invaded. Kings can and do lose their patience when under the terrible strain of war. Queens too. And who better to lose your patience in front of than your family, your friends, the people you love and trust? Better them than before the lords at court, or worse, the smallfolk seeking the assurance of the crown."

He was trying to comfort her, Sansa knew, but the words rang hollow against the stone walls.

"I don't even deserve to lose my patience," she continued bitterly. "What use am I, if we win or lose this war, I've nothing to do with it, I just sit and try to understand everything you and mother and all of you talk about. And fail at that, too."

Grandpapa chuckled. "Yet it's your war to win, or lose, isn't it?" He sighed, his eyes distant, staring past a distant torch illuminating the castle's empty halls. "Do you remember your first visit to Winterfell, Sansa?"

"Barely," Sansa said, puzzled. "I was five."

"Yes, you were five," grandpapa agreed. Taking her hand, he held it casually before his eyes, examining her fingers in the dim light of the fires. "Arya could barely walk properly, and your mother still carried Bran most of the time in the castle. But you could run, and you did, a lot."

"I don't remember any of that," Sansa said. "Just meeting uncle Benjen and aunt Cersei and Kendron and Jon."

Part of her wished that she could be in Winterfell now, away from all this court, this war business. Let the snows fall, let the Targaryens do what they will, she would be safe in the North, the lands of her father and his family.

"Jon...," grandpapa mused, his voice but a whisper in the night. "He and Robb were friendly from the very get go, I remember. Within a day of our arrival, most would've guessed they'd been brothers all their lives."

"Robb," Sansa said, missing her brother so horribly yet again. Jon had bested him more often than not when they'd sparred, and Sansa recalled Robb still sore at that, saying that he was going to go straight to Winterfell after they put down the Greyjoys, and show Jon a thing or two. "He loved Winterfell. Arya loves it too. I...last time I was there, I just remembered hating the place and wanting to come back to King's Landing the entire trip. Father was pretty cross at me, I think."

"Not cross. Disappointed, because the North is his home, and you're his daughter. Of course he'd want you to love it like your own, just like Robb did." Her grandfather smiled gently at her. "But you liked it enough that first time."

"I did?"

Grandpapa nodded. "Robb and Jon, they'd spar, they'd race, they'd play games, running and hiding everywhere. And you were right there beside them every step of the way."

"I do remember," Sansa whispered, a hint of childish excitement creeping into her voice. "We'd play hide and seek. Jon hid in the vaunts down below...Robb told me so, but I was terrified to go down and look for him there. I thought there'd be ghosts."

Not that she was entirely convinced otherwise, that ghosts didn't roam the dark chambers of Winterfell. Or the Keep for the matter, angry Targaryen wraiths hateful at her for intruding upon their home, with only men like grandpapa and her Kingsguard...no Queensguard...keeping them at bay. Would she join them, before this war was said and done?

"Yet you went down there all the same." Hoster Tully chuckled, dropping her wrist and wrapping his arm comfortingly around Sansa. "I remember how angry your mother was, when they caught all three of you down there. I also remember His Grace pretending to be angry."

Sansa laughed. "I remember that now. Except...I didn't know father was pretending."

Grandpapa smiled, and continued wistfully. "I remember too one night, when it rained for two days and two nights. When it stopped, the sun still took its time in coming out again, and it felt more like Autumn than the beginning of Summer. I took a walk, that first day after the storms, past the courtyard, through the village, to a field where Lord Benjen's household sometimes trained. It was muddy, everything was muddy, the roads, the clearings. I watched Jon and Robb race each other, again and again, each determined to best the other boy, even as they tripped and fell and probably didn't even know where to begin and where to finish the race, by each time they'd made it halfway across the field...and I remember you, Sansa, running right there alongside with them."

"Hmff," Sansa said, recalling. "Yes, I remember trying to race them that day. And losing. Badly. Very badly."

"Yet you never quit, a girl of five adrift a strange land, trying to keep up with two boys nearly twice her age. I'm not sure if they even knew you were there, so determined those boys were to win and prove themselves the fastest, yet you ran with them all day...well, not _with_ them, many paces behind them, but still...every step of the way. They'd reach one end, and rest, and you'd stagger and collapse next to them, and then they'd take off, and you'd get up follow with barely a breath in between."

Sansa laughed, and thanked the gods for her grandpapa in her mind, that he could always make her laugh, and feel better with his stories. "Mother must have been so angry with me."

"She was," Hoster said with a smile. "She was angry at me too, when I brought three balls of mud back inside the castle, because I didn't stop you sooner. I daresay the Lady Cersei nearly fainted."

"Good."

"I don't think your mother let you leave the castle the rest of that trip, I swear, it seemed as if she locked you up in that tower with your Septa." His frail fingers took her chin, and tilted her head so that her eyes met his. "Your mother made sure that the Princess Sansa _acted_ like a Princess from that day on. And you learned all the your lessons, all your courtesies, all the things a proper lady ought know. But I never forgot, dear child, the little girl who wouldn't give up, who had a heart of iron...who...underneath all her pretty dresses and courtesies, never lost that heart of iron."

They sat in silence for some time, as grandpapa's words sunk in.

_Grandpapa's wrong,_ Sansa was too afraid to say. _ I don't have a heart of iron._ She did remember that day in the mud with Jon and Robb, and yearned for such simplicity sitting where she sat now. But she knew that the little girl didn't run and play with her brothers because she had some special heart, she just did so because...well, Sansa wasn't exactly sure. Because she was a stupid child, too stupid to know better, because she must've been terribly bored and there wasn't much else to do in Winterfell? Or maybe because she was scared, terrified of the strange castle, and being next to Robb was the only way she'd felt safe when father and mother were busy with their duties?

_Grandpapa's wrong, _she thought again._ Does this mean they put the wrong child on the throne? _ It didn't matter, it was too late now.

"I wish mother had done a better job courtesy'ing Arya up," Sansa said, trying to ignore those frightful, near treasonous thoughts.

Grandpapa laughed, a loud and hearty one, evoking a wider grin upon Sansa's face. "Ah, the younger ones. The things I wish I could have done differently with your Uncle Edmure..." Taking a deep breath, he spoke again, but his tone more serious now. "But I _do_ have news, Your Grace. I suppose one may consider it good news and bad, though war is always far more complicated than such simple expressions."

And just like that, they weren't girl and grandpa anymore, but Queen and Lord Councilor.

"What is it?"

"The good, well, I guess it might or might not be entirely good. But we have word the Targaryens have moved west into the Reach, rather towards King's Landing."

"There won't be a siege then?" Could she dare hope?

"Not right away. But the Targaryens are seeking allies in the south. They may very well come back north and attack the city, except with a much stronger army."

_And then siege or not, the war is truly lost._

"That's the good news," Sansa asked. _It never ends. _ "What's the bad then?"

Hoster Tully held out a small slip of parchment.

"It would appear that the Lannisters lied about their relationship with the Targaryens."

* * *

**Varys**

"This is treason you speak of!"

Did the Lord of Highgarden's face also blush so red whenever he rose his voice, Varys wondered. Mace Tyrell wasn't an unpleasant man, but nor was he all that pleasure either. Such as the lot of the seven kingdoms, he supposed, that the so-called _greatest_ lords of the realm ranged not just through the few great men such a Rhaegar, or Jon Arryn, or even the older Baratheon brothers, to the greatly terrible men like the former Lord of Casterly Rock, but more often than not, the mediocrities like Mace Tyrell or, from what he'd heard, Hoster Tully's heir in Riverrun.

"I mean this most politely," Varys said, finding the diplomacy of things much easier with the Prince absent from their little meetings. "But the treason was already committed when you surrendered to Eddard Stark at Storm's End six and ten years ago."

They were encamped a few days away from Tumbleton, and while the Footly's had made no decision regarding their loyalties, awaiting instead the pronouncement of their liege lord, they were already decidedly committing treason of a smaller variety by allowing Rhaegar's brother a room in the castle, which the young man happily took, savoring his first taste of relative luxury since sailing from Pentos.

"What would you do," Randyll Tarly snarled, a grim, war-hardened man whom Varys was most eager to win over, considering he'd given the Crown practically its only victory in the war against the usurpers. "It was surrender, or die. We've wives and children here, not all of us can flee across the Narrow Sea to suckle at the teat of eastern potentates like Rhaegar did."

"You make a valid point," Varys pretended to concede. "Rhaegar had no wife nor children, not after the usurpers massacred his family." His tone gentled. After all, the purpose of this meeting was diplomacy, and he was not Prince Viserys. "I assure you, my good lords, the King Rhaegar understands your predicaments. You all knew him before the rebellion, he was loved through all the realm because of his chivalry and generosity...not because of his cruelty or capacity for grudges. Considering that the main instigators of the rebellion are dead_...including the Mad King_, he will forgive any who'd bent the knee to the Starks...even a Hoster Tully or Jon Arryn, should they surrender and pledge their loyalty to their true king."

Mace Tyrell's nose twitched. "That's certainly generous," he mused, having obviously not expected this tact.

"It's stupid," Randyll muttered.

"His Grace may allow the high traitors to live," Varys added, his voice more clipped than before, "but he never said anything about allowing them to retain their power, or their titles."

And therein lay the threat. Men like Mace Tyrell had committed far less treason than the Tully's and Arryns...but only up to their current shared moment in time. There lay still a war to be fought in the days to come, a war which could see the scales of many swing one way or the other.

"We bent the knee to the Starks, like everyone else," Mace said, and Varys sensed that though the man was coming closer to a decision, he was not at all happy about it, wherever his whims may land. "There's no reason for us to change things, the Starks have been good to our family, my daughter Margaery serves in the Queen's court..."

"A hostage," Varys suggested.

His words seemed to stun the man to silence.

"Maybe," Randyll said to the horrified lord, and Varys wondered whether he'd not considered that particular implication before now. "Maybe not. But Robb Stark's dead. Margaery's not the Queen, she'll never be the Queen, by naming the girl over Prince Bran it's obvious the value King's Landing places upon their alliance with your family."

"Maybe the girl can marry Loras," Mace Tyrell stuttered, before gawking at his vassal. "Are you seriously considering this, Randyll?"

The old warrior grimaced. "Aerys was an awful king, but he was _my_ king, and I fought for him. I've no quarrel with the Starks, they won the war fairly, I bent the knee to King Eddard...but for them to put some dumb girl on the throne is an insult to the realm."

His liege lord wasn't convinced. "More of an insult than what Aerys did to the realm?"

"Aerys invited war with his actions," Randyll said, and Varys thought that perhaps the man had made up his mind before even arriving at Tumbleton. "So do the Starks now, tempting all the lords with their weakness every day the girl sits on a throne far too big for her. Maybe I made a mistake with Aerys, I don't care, that's all history now. But I know this, the seven kingdoms will never accept a girl in the throne. Even if they offer her hand in marriage to Dickon, I'd refuse them. She'll lose that crown one day, sooner or later, and I wouldn't want my son to lose his head for it too." He looked pointedly at Mace. "Or my daughter."

"Even if they made Dickon a King," Mace inquired, though he'd obviously heard Randyll's last spoken words.

A wry grin from the man, and Varys thought this was the first time he'd seen the Tarly man smile.

"Such talk would be treason against both Houses Stark and Targaryen, wouldn't it?"

"Lord Mace, I understand your predicament, I really do. You're a man of honor, of integrity..._and_ your lovely daughter resides in Red Keep. I don't expect His Grace to begrudge you, were you to refuse his cause...so long as you do not _oppose_ his cause."

"What do you mean," Mace asked carefully, Randyll's eyes eagerly observing both of them.

"I understand the Queen...ahem," Varys coughed, "the Queen's Council has summoned you to the defense of King's Landing, so refusing them outright may be construed as treason. But say, were the Lord Randyll Tarly to decide upon raising his banners for King Rhaegar..._against_ your wishes, of course...well, that would deprive you of a rather substantial piece of your army, wouldn't it? And you ought be wary of Dorne, seeing as how the Martells have declared for House Targaryen, you must also not neglect the defenses of the Reach and its eastern borders, which are just as much the domains of Queen Sansa as is King's Landing."

"Do nothing, while allowing my lords to commit treason?"

"It's a _reasonable_ course of action," Varys said with a smile, "and His Grace is a reasonable man. I doubt Rhaegar will begrudge you for it, considering the position you're in. Or the Regency Council, for the matter, on the rather unlikely chance that House Stark wins this war."

Shaking his head, Mace Tyrell stumbled out of the tent without saying another word. Which was good, Varys knew, having seen the defeated look on his face before departing.

* * *

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**Notes and Responses:** As always, thanks for reading and taking the time to review! Regarding Jon, Ned would've probably seen no reason to hide his identity with Robert dead and himself King, and he would've certainly wished to legitimize his late sister's only child, so Jon's parentage is known to all in this story. As for Viserys, you're right, he has a different background here than in the show. However, there could be other factors at play as well. Rhaegar is essentially his father here, and while I wouldn't necessarily say Rhaegar is a bad father, I wouldn't be too sure that he'd be a good father, considering his own baggage. Certainly, it seems that Rhaegar is more fond of Danaerys than Viserys, and that alone would be enough to cause some resentment, if not also for the fact that Rhaegar is determined to prevent Viserys from marrying to bedding a sister he lusts after. And while Viserys doesn't have to carry the weight of all of House Targaryen in exile, I do imagine any young man, especially a prince, would have their own ambitions. And, with the whole nature vs nurture thing, who knows how his coin landed?

He's not as cruel as he is in the show, thus far at least. But it does appear he's rather arrogant about it all, a bit resentful of his older brother, yet eager to prove himself to him.

And yes, I love myself an independent Sansa as well, and try to write that in a lot of my stories, even if she is eventually paired with someone or anyone. Both her childish compassion and naivete are on display when she tries to give Renly a soft landing, so to speak, so we'll see whether it will haunt her in a good way, or bad. And I write this story very interested in the opposition. Rhaegar and Lewyn give me some new characters to write and develop, as well as a Daenerys that will be the same as canon Dany in many ways, but also very different in other ways.

As to Littlefinger, I can't speak much about him now. But he certainly seems to have the trust of both Cat and Jon Arryn, same as the beginning of the books/show. And I imagine he's not at all sad about Ned dying either...


	6. The Queen's First Battle

**Daenerys**

"Any word?"

"No."

The King shook his head. Most would take his silence for, well, nothing, because the King...her brother, was a quiet man, a solemn, sullen man for all the years Daenerys had known him. But because he was her brother, and more than that, Rhaegar was as much of a father to her as any man can or ever will be, Daenerys knew the difference between a sad Rhaegar, and a vexed Rhaegar.

"You're worried."

The palace of Illyrio Mopatis in the Free City of Pentos was a great and beautiful work of art, every step, every inch perfectly manicured to suit the tastes of the richest man in city, though he was certainly not the richest man in the Free Cities, or would even be considered as such in the Daughters. Daenerys knew all this, because all her life she'd spent in manses like this one, magistrates and princes and archons and the such treating her and her family as the royalty they pretended to be. And so they were in the eyes of these rich men, these merchants, but Daenerys did not live so many years with the gilded not to know well of them. The noble classes of Essos had no knights, no codes, little sense of honor. They may proclaim to worship R'hilor, or the Many Faced God, some the Harpy, or a few even the Seven, but all of them knew of one thing and one thing only...gold. Money. That which made them rich, and will keep them rich, alongside all their servants, slaves really, and their roasts and muttons and fruits and wines and blackberry tarts shipped all the way from the finest shoppes in Lannisport.

And the only reason these men who worshiped their gold treated Daenerys and her family like royalty was because they expected more gold from them in return one day, in one way or another.

"It's war," Rhaegar replied, slumping deeper into his chair. "Wars are worrisome things."

They'd always provided him with a fine chair, wherever they went, set in the middle of a grand hall to further the illusion that her brother was a King, but Daenerys knew that Rhaegar knew well that were he ever to believe these chairs an actual substitute for the Iron Throne, these rich men of the east would have no qualms in slitting all their throats in less than half a heartbeat.

"You're worried about Viserys." From behind her brother, she glimpsed a smirk from Ser Lewyn. "The war's in his hands now," Daenerys said, her small legs pacing the room thoughtfully. "But I do wonder, do you worry more about what the war could do to Viserys, or what Viserys could do to our war?"

The King of eastern palaces and merchants chuckled mirthfully. "You've been giving this quite a lot of thought, haven't you, Dany?"

"I've got nothing else to do but think. And wait."

Rhaegar reached out his hand, and one of the servants handed him a glass of wine. Daenerys could see Ser Lewyn eyeing it greedily.

"Would you rather be out there, helping your brother fight the war?"

"Wouldn't you, brother?" She turned her eyes to the Dornish Kingsguard, gray having seeped into the fine hairs of his beard more than three years before. "Or you, Ser Lewyn, in the field, or anywhere beside this gold covered cage?"

She knew she'd just struck a raw chord with the two men, considering what had transpired the last time they'd fought together, upon the banks of the Trident, the great river of her homeland. But Daenerys Stormborn did not care, because she wasn't lying, because it was terribly boring, having to just sit, and eat, and wait, and nothing else.

"There's nothing I want," Lewyn Martell replied, perfectly perfunctorily, "than to serve my King, and carry out all his wishes."

"I know you worry for our brother," Rhaegar said, his voice echoing with its usual deadness, "but he is a Targaryen prince, he is a dragon, and we must trust he will rise to fulfill his role...the destiny he's always been meant to fulfill."

_Gods, he believes these words._

It wasn't that Daenerys disliked the younger of her two brothers, or wished him death in this war, far be it, but the youngest child of King Aerys, Second of His Name, would not have been too terribly upset were she to hear the news that Viserys had been captured, and sent to a permanent exile to the Night's Watch in the far north of Westeros. They'd been close once, her first memories told her that, playing on a small beach with Viserys outside the same mansion they resided now in Pentos, Rhaegar watching both of them fondly, the only times she thought his eyes weren't completely laced with sadness, a sadness she understood, that she could almost feel in her own bones, even whilst she was an unthinking child.

But as the years went on, she thought she saw more and more annoyance in Viserys's eyes, especially when it was just she and Rhaegar, her older brother reading a book to her, or humoring her while she played with her dolls. She'd been young then, a much lighter thing, her small body not enough to hurt her brother's wounded legs when she sat in his lap. Daenerys imagined there did come a day when she grew enough where she'd become a terrible and painful burden to Rhaegar, yet he hadn't the heart to tell her, not until Ser Lewyn gently pulled her aside one evening and whispered that she ought to start sitting on the floor next time Rhaegar read to her.

"Your Grace."

Brisk footsteps interrupted their solar, except the room wasn't theirs, it belonged entirely to the man who'd just interrupted their very small family gathering.

"My dear Magisters," Rhaegar acknowledged from his seat.

"We have news from Westeros," the Lyseni man who accompanied Illyrio said eagerly, holding up a thin sliver of parchment in his bony hands. Mardos Haegaros was a tall man, much thinner than his Pentoshi counterpart, and much more perfumed.

"Tell me," Rhaegar said, taking the piece of paper from the Lyseni man.

"The Spider writes to tell us that Randyll Tarly has declared for House Targaryen," Illyrio said happily and concurrently whilst Rhaegar read what Daenerys presumed to be the same joyful news in the letter.

"That's great news," Lewyn replied, but Daenerys saw her brother frowning.

"But he believes House Tyrell will remain neutral, though not hostile...until the fate of the war becomes clear."

"Perhaps it's not everything," Illyrio said with a shrug of his shoulders, "but it's something."

"More than just something," Mardos added, the only one of the two magisters who seemed aware of Daenerys's presence in the room, though that was not a good thing. "They tell me Randyll Tarly is a great military mind, perhaps the best in all of Westeros. Surely this reduces the advantage the Starks have with Stannis Baratheon."

The older she grew, the more Daenerys became aware of the eyes of the men around her, the way men such as Mardos Haegaren, who owned several of the most profitable brothels in Lys, looked upon her. Glared at her. Rhaegar had been careful to keep her away from such places, the few times they took refuge on the island city, but one of her handmaidens there had once worked in the very brothels Mardos owned. They lived little better than slaves, Daenerys had learned from the reluctant girl, after some very persistent questioning on her part, and as she tried ignoring the old man in the room, she wondered, left to his own devices, whether a man like Mardos would take her and make her one of his own, Princess of House Targaryen or not. And perhaps that would be her fate, were they to lose this war, the gilded men of Essos seeing no further use for her family.

_Yet how much better are we, that we buy slaves to fight and die for our titles, for our own lives?_

"Yes, it's certainly better than nothing," Rhaegar said thoughtfully, though his continued silence seemed to indicate to the two magisters that their audience with their King, for now at least, was over.

"Surely this will win the war for you, Your Grace," Illyrio said with a bow, before the both of them exited.

Viserys looked at her that way too, Daenerys had come to realize, his purple eyes always dancing with a mixture of lust, envy, and resentment in her presence. Rhaegar's never did. Did that make them different, Daenerys had wondered, once such thoughts dawned upon her, that neither she nor her eldest brother coveted their own blood? Did that mean that, between the three of them, the last living Targaryens living save for the lone child the usurpers left alive and captive in the north, did their lack of lust for one another make _Viserys_, out of all people, the _truest_ Targaryen remaining?

"We won't have to worry about your brother, Princess," Ser Lewyn said to her after they'd departed, "not with men like Ser Jorah and Randyll Tarly wielding his sword, not with men like Lord Varys listening to his whispers."

_Yes, what a great prince we have, when all his princely duties are left to others._

* * *

"I don't care."

She found him sitting on a rock, staring into the sea and across it, as he was apt to do whenever he wasn't by his King's side. Did he think about home, Daenerys wondered, did he think about the family he'd lost, or the family he still had across the Narrow Sea...a family he'd only see again were they to win this war.

Would he give it all up for her?

"What don't you care about, child?"

Daenerys bristled. "I'm not a child anymore."

"You might think so," Ser Lewyn replied, refusing to look at her. "Viserys thinks the same thing too. Maybe Rhaegar is right, he'll rise to the occasion..."

"I don't care," Daenerys repeated, sitting next to him upon the same rock, taking and wrapping her hands upon his right arm, his sword arm. Across the bristling horizon, the last rays of the sun were settling down into the lands of her family, the lands where she was born. "Let them lose this war, let them win the war...I don't care."

She could feel his breath come to a standstill, before he drew his arm away from her. Yet it had lingered, Daenerys thought, longer than before.

"I won't tell your brother...your brothers, what you said," Lewyn said, still refusing to meet her eyes.

"I mean it," she replied, feeling her teeth grit upon each other. How could she care about those battles, when this was the only battle Daenerys truly wanted to win? "What will happen if we win this war? My brother Rhaegar will sit in a chair all day...no different than what he's doing now. Viserys will be Viserys, except worse, were he to actually believe he had any part of winning this war. And Rhaegar will sell me to this grand lord or that, some old man probably..."

"I'm an old man."

"I don't care about them." She grabbed his arm again, and caressed it through the armor with her hands, because Daenerys had never been someone who gave up easily. "I care about _you_."

_I love you._

"You should care less about me," Lewyn grumbled, and she wondered how long she would have to fight this, before he would finally surrender to her.

"Leave," she suddenly whispered. This caught his attention, and Lewyn turned his dark eyes upon hers. Sensing her opening, Daenerys continued, tugging his body towards hers as she spoke. "Let's leave together. Let's run to the harbor, and find a small boat...we can sail it east, all the way to Slaver's Bay. Or Qarth, I've always wanted to see Qarth."

"What about Rhaegar?"

"He doesn't need us. You said it yourself, he's got men like the Spider and Randyll Tarly. They'll help him sit on a chair just fine, whether here, or on the other side of the sea."

"And we'll have the gold to pay for passage to Qarth how," he asked with a smile, and Daenerys knew that he was just humoring her, but it was better than nothing. "Hmm? What's to say all those slavers in Slaver's Bay don't make us their slaves?"

"Those dragon eggs the magister gave me, for my last name day," she answered, having made up her mind before she sought him out by the sea. "I'll sell them. We'll sell them."

Was there hope? To her dismay, Lewyn shook his head and withdrew his arm from her again, but then her heart quickened as he raised it towards her face, touching two fingers upon her left cheek.

"You know it'll never happen."

"Because of _you_!" She wanted to slap him, for his obstinacy, but as usual, her protests fell on deaf ears.

"Yes, because of me. And because of you, and Rhaegar. Because of _who we all are_."

She gave up. She buried her head into his chest, and pounded against him lightly with her small fists, careful not to actually hurt him, though she knew she couldn't even if she were to try.

"Why do we have to be who we are?" Her voice was muffled. "Why can't be who we _want_ to be?"

She felt his embrace...gentle...careful...and wished it could be so much more.

"You'll understand when you're older, child."

This time, it was she who pulled away from him. "Is that how you'll always think of me? As a child?"

"It'll _always_ be what you are to me, Daenerys Stormborn."

When she walked away from him, one foot carefully after another up the sea kissed rocks back to her palace for the day, Daenerys Stormborn did so with the satisfaction of knowing that the most honorable Lewyn Martell, valiant knight and most loyal Kingsguard, had just lied to her.

* * *

**Varys**

He could see the Western Hills in the distance, and Varys thought of Tywin Lannister, the old lion, for surely he was an old man now. They'd never been foes really, in the traditional sense. While he'd been wary of the man when they served together on Aerys's Small Council, more often than not he'd cautioned his king to heed the advice and whispers of his then Hand, so as to keep Tywin Lannister close to the court and on the side of the Crown. How well that had worked out for him, Varys mused, though he'd been right, after all. With the Lord Tywin's steadying hand during the years when the man had retreated to Casterly Rock, the Targaryens may never have fallen, the rebellion may never have broken out in the first place, and this Stark girl who sat on the throne now would have never been born. They said Ned Stark had fallen in love with the Dayne girl at Harrenhal. Would he have been much happier living a life as a minor knight in Starfall, rather than reluctant king and scion of his house? Varys thought so.

"They're trailing us still," Randyll muttered, his eyes following the same line of ridges in the far distance, where keener eyes saw dust rising through the misty morning air.

"Serretts and Lydden," Ser Jorah added, "my scouts say. Only a few hundred men, a thousand at most."

They were in no hurry to break camp, and both Randyll and Mormont would linger here for longer, Varys knew, for more of his birds to the west to bear fruit, were it not for the need to continue north so as to threaten to cut Stannis off from King's Landing, keeping him from committing completely against Connington's men. And, there was the fact that staying too long in any one area would tax the smallfolk too much with their...requests...for provisions, which would go against their goal of winning not just the war, but the true fealty of the Seven Kingdoms, for House Targaryen.

"Not enough to threaten a crossing," Randyll said, watching carefully the men packing up their camps, the sound of the rushing river echoing through a mild and cloudy morning. "By tonight we'll be north of the Blackwater."

"Most of the Lannister bannermen are held up east," Jorah agreed, "defending King's Landing. I've word that Stannis is holding steady between Harrenhal and Darry, waiting to see where Connington's men cross the Trident."

The Lord of Horn Hill bit his lips, deep in thought. "The question will be which side of the God's Eye we march..."

They were interrupted by a very happy prince, accompanied by Anders Yronwood wearing an equally hungry grin. To Varys's surprise, Viserys almost hugged him in front of all gathered in the camp, before the Prince gained his bearings and backed away, almost a blush upon his face.

"My applause to you, Lord Varys, your efforts have come to fruition!"

"They have?"

"The Lannisters," he said happily, "they've joined our cause!"

"A raven," Randyll asked, as perplexed as Varys.

"No," Anders Yronwood said in his deep, throaty voice. "A messenger, asking an audience with the Prince at the break of dawn." He handed Varys a small scroll. Reading it quickly, he nodded carefully before handing it to Randyll next to him.

"The war's won," Viserys exclaimed, before the old soldier had finished reading. "The Starks have entrusted the defense of King's Landing to them, and they'll open the Mud Gate to us once we besiege the city!"

"Where is this messenger," Varys asked, exchanging a glance at Jorah Mormont, who was now in possession of the scroll. The seal seemed real enough, but something did not add up.

"He left," Viserys said casually, "he rode back to King's Landing."

"Obviously he couldn't dally, lest the Starks get suspicious," Anders added.

"You were there," Randyll questioned the Dornish lord.

"I was."

"You trust this?"

"Aye," Anders nodded, "it was a Westerling boy, I remember him from the last tourney as part of Lord Tyrion's household."

"Alright," Randyll said, deep in thought. He then looked at Varys. "Whoever your contacts are with the Lannisters, tell them we accept their pledges of fealty, tell them to leave King's Landing north by any pretense necessary, and march north along the Kingsroad towards Harrenhal. We march along the west banks of the God's Eye, and Stannis won't have any escape..."

"What are you talking about?"

The Prince's tone took them all by surprise.

"Excuse me...Your Grace," Randyll said, the hardened soldier not accustomed to being addressed so disrespectfully. "I'm speaking of our strategy..."

"Did you not read the note, man?" With a mouselike reflex, Viserys snatched the letter back from Ser Jorah and waved it in Randyll's face. "Our strategy is to take King's Landing and the Red Keep, and toss the Stark bitch out from the highest window of the castle!"

"Your Grace," Varys began, having observed the conversation carefully with barely a word thus far, "if I may...I believe the best course of action to be the one we've determined upon previously, the same strategy your brother has approved..."

"My brother didn't know the Starks were stupid enough to let the Lannisters into the capital," Viserys said, desperation creeping into his voice as it intensified into a scream, now that he'd seen the reception to his news was not what he'd expected when he'd first approached them.

"This is war," Anders said. "Events change, so should our strategy along with them."

"Don't you lecture me about war, child," Randyll chided brusquely. If he could not lose his temper on the Prince, it was obvious that he was taking it out on the lowly Dornish lord instead, addressing Anders Yronwood as a child even though he was a grown man with a grown son. "How many battles have you won?"

"Fuck battles," Viserys screamed right back. He pointed down the river, in the direction of the mid-morning sun. "King's Landing is that way, right along this river. We follow the river, we take the capital, and we win the goddamned war!"

"And what will you do with the capital once you've taken it...Your Grace?" Varys could tell it took all of Randyll Tarly's self restraint to not call the Prince something worse. "Ned Stark took Pyke, that castle ended up being his coffin. It'll be ours too, once Stannis and the Northmen lay siege to it."

"We need to wipe out the Queen's armies," Jorah agreed, "before we take her capital."

For a second his face was blank, and Varys thought the man had finally talked some sense into the Prince. But then Viserys broke out into a fit of laughter. "You're joking with me, aren't you, Lord Randyll, Ser Jorah? Surely the two of you can't both be this dim? We kill the girl and her bitch mother, we kill every Stark, every Arryn, every Tully, and there won't be a Queen or King to command Stannis to march against us."

_He'll be a problem._ Varys always suspected this, but Rhaegar always had a way of putting his younger brother in his place. Yet it had been Rhaegar's decision to place command into the unsteady hands of his younger brother, except what choice did a near crippled king have? Certainly not the child sister, though Varys did suspect that a younger Daenerys would be a better placeholder to treat with men like Randyll Tarly. After all, wasn't that the strategy Arryn and Hoster Tully determined upon, when they named Sansa Stark to the Iron Throne?

"Your Grace," Varys said carefully, "our goal is to win the country for Rhaegar. Executing traitors, however deservedly, will do nothing to win the realm for your brother. Especially when many of them are children."

"Isn't that how Ned Stark won his crown? By killing children?"

"Ned Stark punished the men who killed Aegon and Rhaenys," Jorah reminded him. His demeanor remained calmer, unlike Randyll Tarly's, but then Viserys had not insulted Jorah Mormont repeatedly. Yet.

"They'll name Lord Benjen King," Varys said, though he feared the battle was already lost. "Or Stannis, or by the Gods, maybe even the fool in Riverrun, Lord Edmure. The realm will not submit..."

"Are you siding with the traitors, Lord Varys? _Of course_ the realm will submit, it's their duty, they're sworn to House Targaryen..."

"House Targaryen no longer has dragons!" The moment had come, Randyll Tarly's patience had finally worn through. "Do you know just _how_ the realm will submit to you, Your Grace? Because of people like me, and Lord Varys, it's my experience and my men and my swords and lances which will put a crown on your brother's head!"

Viserys huffed, his breathing irregular now. "You dare...I'm the Prince! I'm in charge here!"

Rather than addressing the self-proclaimed Prince, Randyll turned to Varys. "I'm not going to risk my head on this foolish venture. Or that of my childrens'. March on King's Landing, and you'll have to do so without my men."

"I'll have your head!"

Calmly, Randyll took two steps towards Viserys, until they were standing chest to chest. Seeing his hand on the hilt of his giant Valyrian blade, Anders readied his stance.

"Try it."

No one moved, and it would be Randyll Tarly who broke the stalemate. Stepping away from the Prince, he clasped Ser Jorah's shoulder first, before departing.

"It was good to make your acquaintance, Ser Jorah. I wish you good fortune in the wars to come."

They all watched him walk away, Varys's eyes in dread, Viserys's in rage, and Anders Yronwood in confusion.

"What should we do about him," the Dornishman finally asked, "Your Grace?"

Viserys shrugged. "We'll deal with him after we win the war."

* * *

**Sansa**

"...most of you may only know me as the daughter of Eddard Stark, your King. Some of you rode with him more than six and ten years ago, leaving Winterfell to fight the right and just war against the Mad King and his cruel son. Many of you may have joined along the way, from places like Riverrun, or the Twins, or Raventree, Gulltown, Runestone. And many more of you raised your sword against my father, until after the war, when you pledged your undying fealty to King Eddard..."

She knew her hands would be shaking, were she to be holding the piece of paper that they'd written for her.

"...many of you left behind with you your wives, children, sons, and daughters. Some of you brought them here to King's Landing, for the sake of serving your King and lords. Some of you didn't, but they remain with you in your heart, your mothers, your fathers, dear friends and family..."

The night was humid, more humid than most nights in the summer. Or maybe it was the armor she wore, still shining after being freshly forged for this occasion of the Queen's first battle. Sansa's eyes settled upon the rough, dirtied, bent, and broken armor of some of the men below her, men who'd survived battles probably since before she'd been born, and wondered just what they truly thought of their new Queen, whom they would be dying for upon this night.

"...years before, the Mad King and his son, Rhaegar the Rapist, through their heinous crimes against their realms, their peoples and lands whom they were sworn to protect, forfeited their right to the throne, forfeited their right to rule over all of us, over our families. Six and ten years after, they return, but not before they conspired with the reapers and rapers of the Iron Islands to betray your King, not before they've falsely convinced the Rhoynar into treason even after King Eddard gave them justice for the crimes committed in his name...and not before they've brought with them soldiers of fortune...savages, who know nothing more of their lives than war, and all the spoils they would seek to reap in its name..."

At least her memory was flawless, no matter how awful her delivery, having spent hours ever since they'd handed her the speech the day before, reciting the words in her chambers through the night, until she fell asleep with the parchment in her hands, then dreamed of the same words echoing through her head over and over again.

"...many of you will die tonight. I ask you to fight for your Queen, and your lords, whom you owe your fealty to. But I also ask you to fight for love, for your homes, for your families, your mothers and fathers, your sisters and brothers, your sons and daughters, against Rhaegar the Rapist, and his armies of foreign savages and reapers..."

At least she didn't see any of the men yawn or roll their eyes. Arya had, when she'd first rehearsed the speech for her sister. Sansa thought her sister may have been the only person in the city who was not terrified for the oncoming battle. Or was Arya just that good at hiding it?

_"I can't believe they won't let me on the walls with you."_

_"Not even mother is coming out," Sansa said, dreading the inevitable moment when she would feel naked without her family, delivering a speech to thousands of strange and ferocious men. "They'll move me back closer to the Keep, Lord Arryn says, before the battle really begins."_

_But away from the fighting as the Keep was hopefully to be, she was to remain on the Walls for the duration of the battle, unless it was truly lost. Then what? There was a boat in the harbor, Grandpapa said, which would take her and mother and their family first to Dragonstone, then hopefully somewhere further to the north, where they could perhaps take refuge in the Eyrie, or maybe even Winterfell. What a short, glorious reign that would be for her._

_"I'd win the battle for you with a single stroke of my sword," Arya replied nonchalantly._

_"Your sword is made of wood, stupid," Sansa shot back. "I bet you couldn't even beat cousin Robin in a spar."_

_"You take that back!"_

_"You can't order the Queen," Sansa shouted, though she was smiling, as was her sister, a rare lighthearted occasion since the war began, and in that moment, Sansa thought she'd never been more thankful for her little sister._

_"Maybe you'll die in the battle, and they'll make me the next Queen," Arya said, though Sansa knew in jest._

_"Then I'll be dead," Sansa answered. "You still won't be able to order me around. You'll never be able to order me around, ever!"_

_Her sister's little beady eyes stared back at her for a moment, before she spoke._

_"Fuck you, Your Grace."_

_Then they both broke out in laughter, at the absurdity of it all._

_"I swear, father will come back from the dead and whip you for that."_

_"I'd take that, just to see him again."_

_And just as quickly, the levity vanished, and melancholy returned._

Staring at the faces of the soldiers manning the King's Gate, her eyes fixed upon their blades, rough, sharp, and true.

_I'll be dead._

The words seemed less a joke now, and Sansa wondered truly how painful death would be, impaled at the end of one of the many swords and spears like the ones raised below her now. It'd be a kinder fate, she knew, than to be captured, because though her family and her Council would try to spare her the truth, Sansa knew what happened to little girls who fell on the wrong side of the war...Queen or not.

In the distance, they could hear the beats of hooves, the sound of drums and the dim glint of banners barely visible under the glint of a full moon.

"They're going for the Lion Gate," Jon Arryn said from behind her, though Sansa knew he was speaking more for the benefit of the soldiers and knights, rather than a girl who'd have little to do with the outcome of the battle, now that her speech was given and history. "Or the Gate of the Gods."

That was where grandpapa held his command. She wished it could've been him, rather than Jon Arryn, who accompanied her tonight. Her Hand was her Hand, and her Hand had never been anything but kind to her. But he was a cold man, unkempt in many ways with his occasionally foul breath, who'd never had a tender word for her either, who'd seen her as little more than a piece of furniture in her father's castle, until she'd become his Queen.

_Until he decided to make me his Queen._

"Why not go for the Keep directly," she asked.

"It's likely a feint," Jon answered directly, though Sansa thought she could hear the impatience in his voice. "They'll keep us distracted on the southwestern walls, then send a smaller force along the river."

She thought he looked less old in his armor, the splendid silhouette of the falcon branded upon his chestplate, and Sansa wondered what the man may have looked like, when he was a younger knight, and dashing. Had he been handsome in his youth? Had Jon Arryn ever been young? The Queen wasn't sure.

Her Hand gestured impatiently to Balon Swann, the Queensguard who'd accompanied her all the way out to atop the King's Gate.

"The battle commences soon. Ser Balon will accompany the Queen back towards the River Gate."

He was trying to get rid of her, and she was thankful for the fact. Arya would want to see the battle unfold, her bravado was true, Sansa believed, but the Queen had no urge to see arrows flying towards her, to see iron and steel spit the flesh of the men she'd just spoken her heart to.

"Your Grace gave a good speech," Ser Balon said, as they walked along the walls rising above the river below, and Sansa pondered morbidly how many men would fall off and die along these same walls later that night.

"They wrote the speech," Sansa said, her pace slowed by the armor that made her feel twice as heavy as she was, "Lords Hoster and Jon Arryn."

"Still," Ser Balon said with a grin, "you said the words. You speeched the hells out of it...Your Grace."

Would they tell her to name Ser Balon the new Lord Commander of her Queensguard, once the war was over, provided they won it? Probably not, Sansa thought, having overheard Uncle Petyr telling her mother before he left that Balon Swann was still too young for such a serious command. She'd always liked the knight, he'd always been kind to her, but Sansa had a feeling he liked her wooden sword wielding sister more.

"Maybe I should take up practicing with a sword after the war is over," Sansa thought out loud. "That way, once the next war comes, I'll be of more use than just remembering how to say words others write for me."

Ser Balon smiled good-naturedly. "I'm sure Rhaegar is quivering in his boots as we speak."

It was a lie, but it was lie made out of kindness, and Sansa was thankful for such small acts of kindness before her war truly began.

* * *

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**Notes & Responses**: Regarding why Robb died with his father...he is a "grown" man of 16 at that point, and I'd imagine Ned believes it a serious duty to train his heir and future king in the field of war...and what better than a nice little starter war against some pirates they thought would be easy to win. Also, it's not as if Ned isn't known for the occasional bout of stupidity.

As for Samwell/Sansa...that's definitely an interesting pairing! Whether it'll happen here or not...I do have a feeling that Randyll Tarly despises his eldest son here just as much as canon, and would definitely be angling to send him up to the Wall..


	7. Victory and Defeat

**Trystane**

They were finally marching. His uncle did not seem happy about it, but Trystane knew enough about the world to know that this thing they called duty, to your family, to your liege lords, princes, and kings, was not something that would always be agreeable to even the most powerful of men. Oberyn had received a raven from Anders Yronwood, Cletus's father, and Connington one from the man they called the Spider. If Trystane had to guess, neither chose to share the contents of their letter with the other, but both had agreed that whatever news they'd received, it had offered enough affirmation for both men to agree towards the continuation of their war.

Shouts echoed from one end of the woods to the other.

"Form up!"

"In formation!"

"Enemy approaching!"

They'd all been on high alert, marching through what uncle called the Gauntlet, a narrow strip of land with Seagard to the south and the Twins to the north. Presumably the Spider had sent entreaties to both houses demanding their support, and presumably said entreaties remained unanswered, as both Oberyn and Jon expected hostilities from either direction. Even if they passed the Gauntlet, Trystane remembered, uncle still worried about a rearguard attack, while Jon seemed less concerned, believing most of the enemy bannerman would have already marched south to join Stannis's main army.

"They'd be fools to attack us head on, with a lesser force," Jon Connington had said, though it would appear such foolishness was on its way in materializing.

"What if it's the Northmen," Trystane cried out softly, racing his steed to keep up with his uncle's.

"Impossible," Oberyn shook his head. "Unless the Spider's completely wrong, they've only begun marching south from Moat Cailin."

"A silver eagle," Jon Connington cried out, the first of the enemy flags finally visible through a small clearing in the trees towards the fields below them. "House Mallister!"

"Any Frey banners," Oberyn asked.

"No sign."

"We can't neglect our left."

"Aye, we'll leave the Unsullied in the reserve," Connington said, agreeing with his uncle for once. "Prince Oberyn, take your cavalry to meet their horses. Send riders back once you've ascertained their numbers and positions, I'll lead the Crownland banners against their right. Once we have them pinned, send in the Second Sons to finish them off."

It all seemed easy enough to Trystane, whose heart yet filled with fear at the thought of the oncoming battle. Rearing his horse to follow his uncle, he was secretly relieved when Oberyn waved him off.

"Stay here with the Unsullied," Oberyn instructed, his horse already riding towards the front of the battle. He pointed to a man who appeared to be the leader of the mercenary company, whose name translated itself roughly into something like Ratbag in the common tongue. "If the battle's lost, ride back west, the way we came, get on one of those ships and tell them to sail you straight back to Sunspear!"

"Where's the enemy right anyway," Trystane asked Roger Hogg, one of the knights from the Crownlands who was about to join Connington's attack, but the young man shrugged as he donned his helmet and readied his lance.

"Hells if I know, all these woods look the damn same."

Left to himself and a few hundred strangers who spoke an even stranger language, Trystane could only watch as the dust cleared, the trees ahead of him began to shake, and the screams of rage, and pain, and dying men flew through the woods like birds and squirrels escaping a brutal brush fire. He could hear what appeared to be shouts of triumph on the far side of the woods, below the small hill where Connington had led his knights, and prayed to the Warrior that it was not the enemies exclaims that were hitting his ears. Closer by, down the small creek where his uncle and his men had disappeared, Trystane found himself too fearful for even prayer. The clash of swords appeared to sound further away in that direction, and he could only guess at what was happening in those distant woods up the hill.

It took him a few seconds before he saw the waters of the creek running red, followed by an unsteady trickle of swords, broken lances, and soon enough, fragments of armor that caused Trystane to look away, terrified of what could lie underneath those pieces of shattered metal. Then they heard the sounds of drums and hooves emanating from the right of where Oberyn had taken the Dornish banners, and Trystane could only hold his bowels as firmly as possible while Big Tom Velaryon, the old knight commanding the remaining Unsullied and Golden Company, buckled his horse back and forth across their small line astride the road where they'd formed their defensive positions.

"Hold your ground," he ordered, yelling back and forth as the Unsullied raised their spears in an almost unnatural uniform action, while the men of the Golden Company all unsheathed their swords and held up their shields.

"Boy," Big Tom growled, and it took a moment for Trystane to realize that he was yelling at him, "either fight or git the fuck out th'way!"

Without thinking, Trystane pulled out his sword, and instantly felt the weight of the weapon in his hands. Would he be able to swing it? He'd had his sparring lessons back in the Water Gardens, but Trystane had never wielded his glistening new sword on the back of a horse.

"Shit, shit, shit," the boy mumbled, feeling his arm shaking. Before he'd realized what he was doing, Trystane was pulling the reins of his mount and riding as swiftly as he could through two columns of Unsullied towards tree cover behind their lines. As he fled, he could hear some of the Westerosi knights chuckling at him. Certainly his uncle would be disappointed in him, if either of them survived the day, and Connington would laugh...except, uncle had told him to run, hadn't he? Wasn't he merely following orders?

"Nock," he could hear the knights yelling faraway now, from the front of the battle, and he rode past the Golden Company archers just as they let loose the first rounds of arrows high through the sky, which meant that the enemy was within view for many of them by now, that the ground he'd stood upon just minutes before had become part of the same battleground which may have already consumed his uncle.

The rest of the battle he craned his neck and tried to discern the logic above the din. After some time, he thought it wasn't just his imagination that saw the slow but steady forward movement of the Unsullied columns in the enemy's direction, the rearmost of foreign mercenaries following the men in front of them. From across the field he heard more horses, more huzzahs, which he could only guess that meant that the battle was being decided one way or another.

As the disciplined lines of the Unsullied scattered, clashing wave after wave against the enemy, Trystane dared to see the yellow banners of his own house, and below them, the golden robes of its Prince stained by blood, body contorted impossibly upon his horse, spearing through enemy knights left and right with nary a piece of armor on him.

_What kind of man he is,_ Trystane could only think in awe. _ And what a pathetic coward am I._

Trumpets blew, and Trystane saw the last of the enemy soldiers surrendering as he rode towards the front of the line, where the return of Jon Connington and his knights completed what looked to be an encirclement of the few hundred surviving soldiers.

Pointing his sword at a young quivering man who, judging by his armor, appeared to be a lord, or at least a lord's son, Jon Connington questioned him, his gruff voice hoarse by the end of the battle.

"Do you surrender and bend the knee to King Rhaegar of House Targaryen?"

"You're an invader, Connington." Trystane could see the fear in the blue orbs of the pale faced boy as he replied, yet his words held more courage than what was imaginable to Trystane. "No one wants you here, you or your foreign savages. I will die, we will all die for House Stark, our beloved Queen, and for House Tully. Curse you...I curse all of you, for breaking the peace we've been blessed with, for bring war and suffering and pain to our homes and..."

"Fine then," Connington interrupted. He looked around at his knights, and at Oberyn. "In the name of King Rhaegar, First of His Name...I sentence you to die."

Swinging the gigantic Valyrian blade the man had taken from the late King Eddard, Jon Connington separated with one stroke the head from the neck of the young blue eyed lordling with a strength Trystane could not guess the potbellied man possessed, and in an instant, they all followed, cutting down the weaponless men, swords at their feet, many with their hands still raised in the air. Even his uncle, Trystane saw him stab his spear ruthlessly from behind through the necks of several of the men close to him, before Trystane turned away from the grisly sight.

"I don't understand," he'd said, after they made camp that night, not too far from the massacre from earlier that day. "They surrendered to us."

The march hadn't been long after the battle, and Trystane thought that he could still hear the howling of the crows and vultures feasting themselves upon the carrion they'd left behind them.

"It's war, my young Prince. They surrendered, but they do not kneel. Let them go, and they'll come back and try again, they'll march south to join Stannis...it's us or them, there's no other choice."

The attack had began initially as a scouting party of House Mallister, most of whom had apparently already marched south towards the main Stark army near Harrenhal. Panicking upon stumbling into their army, the young lord, a boy named Jaquil of only nineteen years of age, chose to fight rather than run, and rallied his entire squadron to make battle, despite being outnumbered nearly six or seven to one.

"I ran," Trystane admitted, though surely his uncle already knew this. "When the battle began...I don't know what came over me..."

"Fear," his uncle stated plainly, though Trystane thought the older man did not appear angry or disappointed in him. "We're all afraid, deep down inside, every one of us."

There was fear in the boy's eyes, before he died. There was fear in his eyes as he cursed all of them, staring at Jon Connington, and yet his blue eyes also upon himself as the dying man spoke, Trystane thought.

"Was Lord Jaquil afraid, when he decided to fight us?"

"Probably," Oberyn said with a shrug, cleaning carefully the blood off the tip of his weapon. "I was older than he, when the Usurpers' war began, and twice your age at that." He patted his nephew on the shoulder. "You're still a child. Some children become accustomed to war quicker than others. But you'll learn. By the time you get to the age of that brave young man, you'll still be just as afraid, but your heart will have learned how to push it down, and your muscles will have learned to act and ride and fight, no matter how afraid your heart tells you you are."

He didn't reply, because he had doubts whether that would ever be true for him. And he also doubted whether he wanted to be such a man, so eager to slaughter other young men who've dropped their swords, in the name of a king whom he'd never met, and after today, never wanted to meet.

* * *

**Varys**

The Prince was leading from the rear, but that was what Varys expected out of any battles they'd come across in this war. That was why there were men like Anders Yronwood and Jorah Mormont to lead from the front. He'd hoped for men like Mace Tyrell leading them as well, though that had been a lost cause. Or Randyll Tarly, a cause whose loss he'd personally overseen.

"We don't have enough trebuchets," Viserys screamed, as a flaming boulder leaped off the city walls to destroy yet another one of their siege instruments. He turned angrily at his Master of Whispers. "Why didn't we bring enough trebuchets?"

His hopes for Anders Yronwood had been too high, Varys realized now. The man could certainly fight, but his fortitude was that of a child's when it came to confronting their Prince with the hard truths he needed to hear. That, or Lord Anders was just as dim as Viserys.

"Because we did not expect to be engaging in a siege this early," Varys muttered. _And because Randyll Tarly took more than a third of our equipment when he rode back to Horn Hill._

They both looked to the river, where the fighting was at its thickest. Their men, primarily the Rykker bannermen, were getting slaughtered, caught between the narrow strip of land between the city and the river, all the ladders they attempted to mount against the walls burned or were thrown off easily before any of the soldiers had climbed halfway to the top. They had more success at the King's Gate, where they'd concentrated the bulk of their army in attacking the small angle marking the extreme southern corner of the city, many of the Dornishmen along with some of the Unsullied mercenaries who hadn't sailed to Pyke having made their way up atop the walls.

"Where the fuck are the Lannisters," Viserys snarled, his voice making the bleatings of a querulous child. "Why haven't they opened the Mud Gate yet? They promised they would!"

Though Varys was no expert on military tactics, he could see that their initial success by the King's Gate could not hold. The Stark men atop the walls weren't budging, and more and more of them were streaming in from the other sections of the city to fend them off. It was a vulnerability they could take advantage of, had they more men such as...well, Randyll Tarly's armies from the Reach, much less Connington's thousands of leagues away. But given the numbers Viserys had decided to march with against the city, sure enough victory or defeat depended on whether the Lannister promise was true. Once opened, all their besiegers could easily run from the King's Gate along the river to stream into the city, though taking the Red Keep was still very much another impossible challenge, unless the Lannisters could open the doors of the castle as well, and complete their turn against their erstwhile allies for these last few moons. Perhaps such a startling victory could be enough to win over the support of some of the fledgling houses in the south and west, and win back the support they once had in the Reach...so long as their Prince didn't squander a victory by an indiscriminate massacre of royal Princes and Princesses.

And then, there was still Stannis to deal with further north. And Benjen Stark's Northmen armies even further north...

"Where the fuck are the Lannisters," Viserys screamed again, Varys thought to no one in particular, as he watched the Dornishmen throw up another ladder against the walls, and the ground shook at another boulder landing too close to comfort for a man of letters such as he.

_What road have we tread, where even the thought of victory brings about such dread?_

* * *

**Sansa**

The sound was unbearable, not the screams, but the constant and unyielding cacophony of roars, screams, and crashes of the trebuchets. The smell was unbearable, foul and indescribable stenches that she could only presume to be that of blood and war and other more unspeakable horrors. The feelings were unbearable, her feet shaking with each tremor atop the castle wall, and even though the enemy projectiles were hitting their marks on the opposite side of the city as she, Sansa still feared every time that it would all come tumbling down, the Queen, her protectors, all her family, all these soldiers dying in her name.

"They're making progress by the King's Gate," Ser Balon said, and Sansa forced herself to look shakily towards the same section of the wall where she'd stood and delivered her speech earlier that night.

"The Lannisters," she asked, watching the fighting, less intense though just as bloody, closer to them above the River Gate, or the Mud Gate, as she'd heard several of the soldiers refer to it as, defending the middle section of the walls between her position by the Keep and Jon Arryn's at the far southern end of the city.

"Lord Arryn will calling them over for support as we speak," Balon pointed, and Sansa saw a long line of claw helmeted soldiers marching towards the intense fires raging on the other side of the capital.

They hadn't expected the King's Gate to fall that quickly, based on the chatter she overheard around her. Which meant that things weren't going entirely according to plan. Which meant, as she recalled that discussion many nights before, the scales of victory, or defeat, may well depend on the Lannisters.

* * *

_"Your Grace," Tyrion had bowed that night, when brought forth to her in her solar in the presence of grandpapa and, strangely enough, Lord Renly, his predecessor as Master of Whispers._

_"I understand the Targaryens sent ravens entreating your support before my father was killed, and you withheld this information from the Crown until today." She did her best to project some sense of Queenly authority in her voice, though she knew in her heart of hearts that it was the questioner rather than the questioned who trembled more. At least she towered over the Half Man, and Sansa hoped that her height, and his lack of it, would help her regain some of her confidence as they spoke._

_"Not entirely true," Tyrion defended. "We did not receive their whispers until after King Eddard had been betrayed on Pyke. Had we known sooner that the Targaryens were planning something, we would've informed the threat to the Crown immediately."_

_Grandpapa had told her all this, so the news was no surprise. Grandpapa also said he wasn't sure whether or not the little lion was lying regarding the timing of things, but they'd let the matter pass for the moment._

_"But you did hold back," Renly said skeptically to his successor on the Small Council, "because you wanted to hedge your bets, depending upon whichever child King or Queen the Council chose."_

_Sansa understood that Renly was saying this for her benefit, stating the ugly truth of the matter himself so her grandfather did not have to. She wondered whether the barb had been expected by the Lord of Casterly Rock, who merely shrugged his shoulders._

_"The Council could have named anyone to the Throne, hells, even some landed knight such as, well...Sandor Clegane, were your lordships' minds in the possession of the Tyroshi flu at the time. In lieu of such...uncertainty, in the event that whomever was named would be disagreeable to the interests of the Westerlands, the men and women and children, the lords and knights and smallfolk I am responsible for, so be it that I will not apologize for my choice of caution in the matter, not until the question of succession was firmly settled."_

_"So has the great Lord Tyrion Lannister determined whether or not his Queen is agreeable enough for him?" These words were hers, as was the disagreeable attitude behind them, because they were at war, and her father and brother were dead, and it grated upon her, the nerve of this little man to speak so arrogantly to her as if she were a child. Which she was, but she was also his Queen._

_"It is Sansa of House Stark who sits upon the Iron Throne," Tyrion answered, "not Sandor of House Clegane, or King Sweetrobin of House Arryn, or hells, some wildling Thenn magnar your uncle has hidden in the northern forests...so yes, I pledged the fealty of myself and my bannerman to your cause."_

_"What did Rhaegar offer you," Renly asked rather impatiently, his arms crossed, because again, they all knew the answers to the questions, and were reciting and repeating them unnecessarily now solely for her benefit._

_"That he'd free my brother from his vows to the Night's Watch." The dwarf's face flinched uncomfortably. "A tempting offer, to be sure."_

_"Yes, very tempting," Renly said skeptically, "the release of a man who have a greater claim to Casterly Rock than you."_

_"You'd be surprised," Tyrion replied, his voice making strange notes, undecipherable ones to Sansa. "My uncle Kevan wanted my father added to the pardon, although I seriously doubt Rhaegar would ever agree to that. But I'd trade my title happily and easily for one of them, at the very least." He turned, and addressed the Queen directly. "Your Grace, understand that the support of House Lannister comes with no conditions, no requirements. But after this war...should we win it, I do ask the Queen for one favor."_

_This they had not told her about beforehand. Looking first uneasily at her grandfather, she replied tersely to the little man. "What is it?"_

_"That you send a raven to your Uncle Benjen in Winterfell, and ask him to grant me safe passage through the North, to visit my family at the Wall."_

_Again, she looked at grandpapa, and then Lord Renly, who shrugged. "I certainly don't see any harm in it."_

_But her grandfather seemed less certain. "When don't you ask your own sister? She's the Lady of Winterfell, after all."_

_This time, the small man's eyes seemed to chuckle as he spoke. "Again, you'd be surprised."_

_When the dwarf refused to elaborate further, her grandpapa turned to her and decided. "Care must be taken of course, Your Grace, Lord Tywin has become a powerful man in the north. But I believe the request is a fair one, should House Lannister prove their loyalty to the Crown."_

_"Very well," the Queen agreed._

_"And I have just the way of proving it." This was the part they'd all been waiting for. Lord Tyrion had a plan, but apparently he had refused to disclose it to any of her councilors, insisting on presenting it before the Queen herself alongside them._

_"Go on then," Hoster said, a hint of impatience in his voice._

* * *

Ser Balon Swann frowned in consternation. "They're not pursuing the King's Gate," the whitecloaked knight observed. "I don't understand, they have it, but...they're moving their men...hundreds of them...towards the Mud Gate."

Sansa smiled, perhaps the first time she did so tonight, because she knew something that the young Queensguard didn't know.

"The Mud Gate is a distraction," she said, enjoying the puzzled look in the man's eyes. "A _ruse_." She felt clever.

_Though possessing a secret he doesn't have doesn't make me any the more clever._

"What do you mean, Your Grace?"

Before she could reply, they heard the sound of trumpets emanating from the far horizon, and all the enemy men not engaged in any immediate fighting froze.

* * *

_The small man began pacing the room, admiring as he spoke all the tomes sitting upon the shelves that she'd never touched, ancient volumes placed by the maesters that Sansa doubted anyone in her family had ever perused, save for maybe Bran on occasion._

_"The Targaryens believe the loyalty of my family to House Stark is fleeting, so let us take advantage of that. Were House Lannister to be actual traitors, we will have placed ourselves in a great position to betray the Crown from within. Let them believe that too, that we are willing and eager to do so, in order to prove our loyalty to Rhaegar."_

_Sansa gasped secretly in her chest, pondering the unsaid implications of the Imp's statements, that had the Lannisters actually planned treason, she would've foolishly placed them in a perfect place to do so._

_Tyrion continued under the careful watch of grandpapa's eyes. "Connington's men are marching south through the Riverlands and Crownlands. They have Stannis Baratheon in front of them, and Lord Benjen's Northmen to their rear, though it will take time for your uncle to make his way down the Neck. We don't know where Prince Viserys army is going, except we know it's not King's Landing. In fact, it would appear that they've gone out of their way to avoid attacking the capital, seeing as they marched west in the opposite direction...even after acquiring the support of Randyll Tarly, and a healthy portion of the Reach's fighting men."_

_Grandpapa's eyes narrowed. "You're proposing luring the Targaryens into attacking King's Landing."_

_"Exactly," Tyrion proclaimed triumphantly. "We don't know where they're marching, unless we dictate to them the battlefield, one single and advantageous spot on the map where we believe we can defeat them."_

_"And risk the capital," Renly asked more skeptically, "and the safety of the Queen?"_

_"They don't have enough men for a successful siege," Tyrion proclaimed, "not unless they're promised significant help from within the castle. Keeping Viserys and the Tarly's south will reduce the pressure on Stannis in the north." The small man's footsteps stopped, and he casually reached onto the shelf and pulled out a dusty book, browsing through its contents indifferently before continuing. "In fact, we should send ravens to Stannis tonight, calling him to march back to King's Landing, hide and wait for the Prince's armies to arrive, then wipe them out below our walls."_

_They all contemplated the idea most seriously, except for Sansa, who just stared rather dumbly at the small man. Was he as short as he is now when he was a child, she wondered uselessly. Or had he been a child sized child, would even Arya or Bran have towered over him, when he was their age?_

_"What about Connington's men," Grandpapa asked sternly._

_Tyrion nodded. "Certainly, they'd be in a better position to threaten Lord Benjen's armies. But I'd wager they'd be lured south, equally goaded by the idea that their Prince could take the capital. They'll be extended, and weary, by the time they get close to the Blackwater, and by the time they hear of the defeat...and capture or death of their Prince, it will be too late. The Northmen will be closing in, and the armies of four kingdoms...including the Westerlands, will be ready to close the vise from the south."_

Even through the din of the battle, they could hear the hushed murmurs of the men position along the Blackwater, blind and suddenly vulnerable to a threat they could not see, wondering what the sounds of the new arrivals to the city signified. It was they who died first, as nearly a dozen ships appeared under the moonlight, bearing the flags of the Stag, the Falcon, the Trout amongst other banner hanging below that of the Direwolf, launching fiery missiles as they sailed down the Blackwater against the men now trapped on that thin strip of land below the city walls. Sansa forced herself to watch as men, burning and wounded alike, cried out in pain, ran and flung themselves into the river.

Then the stomps of thousands of hooves, and the screams of the armies, _her_ armies, storming down like a fist against the now panicked besiegers, who resembled from where she stood a swarm of scared ants, as they scrambled in every direction to avoid certain death. They hadn't needed her permission for Lord Tyrion's plan, but grandpapa allowed her to give it anyway, for formality's sake. Which meant, she thought, watching the thousands of men sworn to defend her name ride in and massacre her enemies by the thousands, that all the realm for thousands and thousands of years to come will sing of how she'd made the right decision in the war against the Targaryens.

Of how she'd won her very first battle cowering in the shadows.

* * *

"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just..."

The Queen had lost count by now of how many men she'd knighted that afternoon. Most of them were boys, really, some younger than Robb had been, before he'd marched off with father to Pyke, never to return.

"Rise, Ser Mychel of the House Redfort...a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Thank-thank...thank y-you, Your G-g-grace..."

It was still a strange feeling, to be stared upon with awe by these young men several years older than she, when she would've swooned bashfully in the presence of this gallant young lad so many moons ago, when she was just a princess awaiting whichever gallant lordling her parents would decide she was to marry. Carefully sheathing her sword, a small and light thing they'd forged just for her hands, and probably smaller than even Arya's wooden sparring sword, she thought embarrassingly, Sansa looked back up at Ser Balon and walked beside him towards the next young man whose shaking shoulders were eagerly awaiting her.

It did not escape the Queen's notice, all the dried blood which covered the surface along the grass her royal feet stepped upon. Further away, she watched as men cleared the field of the bodies of dead men, so as to make the scene a bit more pleasant for her by the time she'd reached that end of the clearing, so as to bestow her royal gratitude and give away titles the same way her father handed her and Arya candies with the approval of their Septa's and Maesters when they were children. Sansa had feared that she would cry once again, seeing all the bodies and blood and disgusting things from the battle so fresh, but walking in the here and now, baking under the heat of the sun, all she felt was numbness.

"That's Lord Beric Dondarrion," the Imp's squire said, a chubby faced boy named Podrick whom Sansa guessed was a few years older than she, "and his squire, Lord Edric Dayne of Starfall."

"Ah, the lightning lord," Tyrion explained to her, "one of Stannis's bannermen in the Dornish Marches." Jon Arryn had been wounded in the battle, though not seriously, they told her, and her grandpapa was busy planning the next stages of the war with the Lord of Storm's End, so it fell to her new Master of Whispers to accompany her through the field, a man whose loyalty had been proven beyond a doubt after the events of the past night.

"The boy's a lord too," Sansa asked in a whisper, now that they were approaching the two. "He's looks like he's Arya age, maybe even younger."

The Imp nodded. "His father died young." Even quieter. "You ought to thank Lord Edric, Your Grace. His loyalty to you ensured that not _all_ of Dorne rebelled against the Crown."

"He's a relation of Ser Arthur Dayne," she asked carefully. Then looking around nervously, she added, "and the Lady Ashara?"

"He's their nephew," Podrick explained.

"As you can see," Tyrion added, "there's very few in his family still alive to assume the lordship, or even sit in a regent's role. Thus, one of Dorne's most powerful houses fought on our side last night."

"Your Grace," an older man close to thirty years of age knelt before her. "Lord Tyrion."

"Lord Beric," Tyrion responded first, when the Queen dumbly found herself lost for words, her mind and voice exhausted after so many similar encounters already. "I trust you've already been knighted, so there's no need for such honors to be repeated?"

"You'd be right in assuming so, my good lord," Beric Dondarrion replied with a smile and a soothing voice.

"Nevertheless," Sansa said, finding her voice again, "you have the gratitude of the Crown and your Queen for your actions on the battlefield last night. You helped save the city and its hundreds of thousands of people from an unspeakable fate, and you've saved this country from this vile rebellion."

"The war's not over yet," Beric said gently, in a way, Sansa thought, that didn't sound as if he was lecturing her, unlike some of the other more arrogant knights and lords she'd encountered this trying day. "Be rest assured, Your Grace, that Lord Edric and I will be there to fight for you, in every battle and every war to come."

She nodded politely, and Tyrion turned his attentions towards the boy.

"I'll assume that Lord Edric is still a bit too young to be knighted. He fared well in the battle though?"

"He did, Lord Tyrion. He rode bravely, and even saved my life when a Dornishman had me cornered on the ground."

Sansa watched the fair haired and blue eyed boy look away uneasily at the older man's words of praise, and wondered whether she should call him to the keep to meet her sister.

_He'd make a good husband for Arya,_ she thought. Especially if he was to be this budding warrior.

"Lord Edric," she continued sternly. "I thank you for your loyalty. Rest assured that Starfall and House Dayne will be rewarded for your actions in the battle."

The boy bowed shyly. "Thank you, Your Grace."

Suddenly, they heard a commotion coming from a thick patch of woods on the far side of the field away from them, alongside the river. Looking first at Ser Balon, whose shook his head softly, the Queen nevertheless found herself curious enough to approach the excited shouts and swords raised in the air. They sounded happy, for one, and triumphant, and she was suddenly eager to find out why. And she _was_ the Queen, after all, which meant they would have no choice but to follow her.

* * *

**Tyrion**

"That dragon imp of a prince," they heard a man shout as they got closer.

"We caught him!"

"Here comes the Queen!"

"Take his head off yourself, Your Grace."

A ridiculous idea, and one that thankfully this little girl Queen would have enough sense to ignore. He'd come away impressed by Sansa Stark thus far. She was bright, and certainly stood some chance of maybe retaining her crown once her powerful patrons, great men like Hoster Tully and Jon Arryn, passed in the years to come. More importantly, Tyrion thought, the eldest daughter of King Eddard had enough humility to know her own limitations, the former princess did not pretend to all of a sudden know how to lead, or believe herself a special being touched by the Seven, upon being named a Queen by the most powerful men in the realms.

Of course, the child was young still, and the years between her regency today, and the day she finally came of age to rule alone, could see great changes in her temperaments and demeanor, as it does all children, not to mention a girl placed in as tremendous of a role as Sansa Stark. Some, like Jaehaerys the Old King, had risen to the occasion, while others such as Aegon the Broken ultimately deteriorated into a worse version of themselves in the meantime. It would be the jobs of the Queen Dowager, as well as men like Hoster Tully and Jon Arryn, to mold the girl into something resembling more closely the former.

_And me, is it now my duty too,_ Tyrion wondered. _By accepting my seat on the Small Council, have I obligated myself to seeing to the girl keeping her head in the years to come, to seeing through the success of the family which banished my entire family to a frozen wasteland?_

_Speaking of frozen wastelands..._

"You would be Ser Jorah Mormont," he recognized from the chest plate of the burly man guarding the quivering silver haired prince, "exiled from the Seven Kingdoms upon the orders of King Eddard, First of His Name."

The older knight nodded solemnly. His face was bruised, and his armor broken in several places, but true to the words of his house, he stood on shaking knees, shielding his Prince from those who would see him join his many dead ancestors.

"Why did my father banish you, Ser Jorah?"

When the man did not race to answer the question, Tyrion answered it for him. "For selling men into slavery, Your Grace. Your fellow Northmen, the blood of the first men, to be specific, who now toil for slavers in cities such as Volantis and Mereen and Yunkai."

"Your crimes are vile," the Queen said sternly, her voice projecting an authority belonging to someone far older, "and now you aid an foreign invader in a savage invasion against the lands in which you were born, against the House you are sworn to in both the North, and King's Landing." A slight pause, as she bit her lip. "Do you submit now, Ser Jorah, to the authority and justice of the Crown?"

Her eyes never wavered, and neither did his.

"Queen Sansa," he acknowledged. "You've beaten us in battle fairly. My sword is broken, my shield gone. But here I stand, and I will defend the Prince I'm pledged to, I will defend the House Targaryen, to whom I am pledged to, until my dying br..."

Before he could finish, a sharp, high pitched voice rang underneath the thin tree cover, piercing the soothing tides of the river nearby.

"I yield! I yield! I surrender, please, my Queen, spare my life, I will do whatever you ask!"

It was the glorious Targaryen Prince, squealing like a pig fresh for slaughter, and Tyrion bit back his chuckle while the many men around them laughed derisively at the cowardice of the second born son of Aerys Targaryen. And yet, he was worried. He'd discussed with the Lords Hoster and Renly, the few on the Queen's Council who were, well, if not friendly, then not too outwardly hostile to him, regarding what to do with the Prince Viserys were he to fall into their hands and alive. The young man was the perfect hostage, they'd all agreed, to keep Connington from any rash moves...and to deter his brother Rhaegar from any further attempts towards invasion.

Yet, Tyrion wondered, did they bother to tell the Queen all of this? What if she heeded the rabid voices of the bloodthirsty men surrounding them? Caught in the afterglow of a brilliant military victory, courtesy of himself, could she decide here and now, lacking the restraining voices of her Regents, to take the head of this most valuable hostage, while he begged for his life? Tyrion did not think so, but then how well did he truly know this strange little girl, how well did anyone truly know the heart of a child, granted such status and power at such an early age.

And she was thinking something, Tyrion knew, as they all awaited her silence with silence. It was a puzzle, there were many times when the girl wore her heart upon her sleeve, yet there were odd moments, such as now, when he truly could not decipher what exactly was going on inside her young mind.

To his relief, she reached her hand out to the kneeling prince, and when she spoke, the Queen's voice was gentle. "With your surrender, you have saved the life of this man sworn to protect you."

Suddenly, before the dirtied Prince could even take her hand to kiss it, the Queen turned and addressed all the lords and knights gathered around the small but very significant scene. Again, a slight pause, as if she were making up her mind on whether to speak further, before she did so.

"I may be a child," the child began, "but I have seen enough of war for one lifetime. Let it all end now, the fighting, the dying." She then turned to the Prince, still frozen in fear, in supplication to a small girl nearly half his age. "Prince Viserys, when you take my hand here, do so with the promise of union. Let us unite our houses upon this ground today, with the promise of marriage and peace for our futures to come."

"I...I..."

Apparently, the cowardly prince was as shocked as the rest of them.

"With this betrothal," the Queen continued, when no one else dared speak, "House Targaryen will reclaim its place in the Seven Kingdoms. House Targaryen will return to its seat upon the Iron Throne through the blood of your child, and mine." She then looked to Tyrion, as if seeking his approval, which he could only returned with a dumb, slack-jawed stare, before turning back to Viserys. "With this betrothal, your brother Rhaegar will renounce his claim to the Seven Kingdoms. He will instruct the Houses Martell, and Greyjoy, and Rykker, and Velaryon, and all who betrayed House Stark to renounce their treason and plead for the Crown's mercy. If the Queen...and her Regency Council, judges their pleas to be sincere and true before the eyes of the Seven, they will receive the same mercy you and Ser Jorah have received today."

"I...I..."

He looked at the boy Podrick, who shook whispered silent words at him through his lips. "It seems to make sense."

"...I accept."

_What a brave new world we live in,_ Tyrion thought, watching the Prince take the Queen's small hands in his,_ where the children possess so much more sense than their elders?_

* * *

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**Notes and responses:** A quick _last_ word on Robb going with his father to war. Such a thing has plenty of historical precedents synonymous with the same period of time as GOT. Edward III waged war in France and at the Battle of Crecy with his son and heir, Edward the Black Prince. Same with Edward I and Edward II, etc, and I'm sure there's plenty of other examples from the same medieval periods.

In universe, I'm sure Ned recognizes that Robb will be more of a warrior king than an administrator. And while the wise thing to do is, yes, leave Robb as regent, he's probably tempted as well to indulge his son in a way that will still help him become a great king. Obviously if Ned suspected Pyke to be a Targaryen trap he wouldn't have fallen into it...but stupidity happens. In real life, in history, in the GOT world...and in this story as well.


	8. Sunrise and Sunset

**Trystane**

A retreat was a different kind of march, Trystane knew now, and certainly a far cry from all the waiting they'd done since the war began. Every minute, every second it seemed, there lay enemies in these dark woods, arrows and swords ready to end their lives. What sleep he got was sparse and constantly interrupted by his nightmares while he was asleep, or by the terrified screams of dying men to jolt him awake, and every day it had seemed that they were marching with less men than the day before, though he didn't dare dally and make any sort of accounting himself.

That first battle had seemed so easy, horrifying as it was, the uncertainly before and during the battle, the brutal massacre afterwards. But dread still sifted through their camp, knowing the great battle was still far ahead, with Stannis Baratheon, the greatest commander in the Seven Kingdoms, standing in their way between their army and the capital. Then they'd gotten word that the Prince Viserys was going to take King's Landing.

_"Stannis will retreat for sure," Jon Connington had said, studying his maps, chewed up by the wind and rain. "It'll be a race to King's Landing, and Viserys is closer."_

_"Which means we'll have to relieve their siege," Oberyn remarked, chewing on a dry piece of meat, "if they take the city. Stannis will keep fighting, I'm sure."_

_"Which also means our road to the capital is clear," Griff replied. They seemed to argue less these days, after routing the Mallister army near Seagard. "We'll cross the Green Fork on the morrow."_

As they traveled alongside the Kingsroad, Trystane could see the faraway peaks of the Mountains of the Moon, and thought about all the armies who had traveled this path in the same direction they were doing now, whether to their victory, or doom. The path south had been good for Cregan Stark and the Tully brothers, who'd won the Dance of the Dragons for the Blacks. It had augured well for Ned Stark and his allies too, though less so for Robert Baratheon personally. Trystane thought that such history would favor them, before remembering that there was another Stark army behind them, marching furiously in the same direction, to catch them before they reached the capital.

Then disaster happened. Word spread through the ranks one afternoon of a complete loss by the Prince's armies below the walls of King's Landing, and a vile betrayal by the Lannisters and Tarly's who had sworn mere fortnights before to fight for Rhaegar's cause. The Prince himself had been captured, so they said, and many of the men, including Cletus Yronwood's father, they heard several days later, had perished in the fighting. There had been another argument between his uncle and Connington. Prince Oberyn prevailed, and they turned their horses around that afternoon, beginning this disastrous race back north and right into the teeth of Benjen Stark's battalions of wildmen.

_"We can't cross back over to the Green Fork," Connington had muttered, one of the first nights of the retreat. "The Gauntlet won't be as friendly, we don't know how many Freys are still sitting at the crossing, ready to pick us off while we're weak."_

_"Is there any way we can reach the Bay south of Seagard," his uncle wondered. "I may be able to get a raven to the captains to sail and meet us."_

_Connington shook his head. "They won't need to even catch us in the Hag's Mire for us to die to the very last man." He pointed his grubby finger further up the map. "We'll need to round north of the Twins, ford the Green Fork somewhere south of Greywater Watch, and circle back around to the Cape of Eagles."_

_His uncle sighed. "The crossing will be easier. But we may find the Northern armies in our way before we reach the ships." The eyes of the Prince lit up, as an idea formed in his mind._

_Connington recognized this too. "What is it?"_

_"If we're going to march that far north...what if we send ravens south to Massey's hook, to Pentos. Whomever knows where the Velaryon fleet that brought over Viserys's army, tell them to sail north and meet us at the Bite."_

_The old man grunted. "We'll spend a lot less time at sea..."_

_"And arrive in Braavos within half a fortnight," Oberyn continued, "rather than having to round an entire continent eager for the bounty that'll surely be on our heads."_

_Which confirmed to Trystane what he'd already suspected, that should they survive this ordeal, he'd be joining all of them in exile, he may never see his home, his father and siblings again. But at least he'd live._

_The man they called Griff nodded. "We march north regardless. If we hear word from the east, we sail from the east. If not, we march as fast as we can back to the Sunset Sea."_

They were several days north of the Twins now, Trystane knew. And while he wasn't intimately familiar with all the maps Jon Connington hoarded, Trystane had noticed they remained on the Kingsroad, rather than pivoting west for a crossing, so he asked his uncle.

"Aye, the fleet was already docked in Braavos. They'll swing west into the Bite. With any luck, we'll meet them when we hit the water. Otherwise, we'll follow the shoreline into the Vale until we see their masts in sight."

"We aren't going back to Dorne, are we?"

Oberyn shook his head. "Not for awhile, at least. But your father is a cunning man. If the war is lost, and he's on the losing side, he'll still do whatever he can to make sure that Dorne doesn't suffer. The same for his family too."

There were no masts to save them when they finally left the road towards a small village named Armis, at the mouth of a small bay along the southwest corner of the Bite. There was a brothel there, which meant his uncle would leave him alone for at least a few hours that night. For a moment Trystane thought to ask and join him. The northmen were still prowling out there somewhere, and it was not out of the question that they would catch up before their ships arrived. He did not want to die without having felt the touch of a woman, but Trystane held his tongue. Perhaps had he been braver at the Battle of Seagard, but it hadn't gone unnoticed by the boy the looks of contempt he'd received from Connington to Cletus Yronwood to nearly everyone, it seemed, except his uncle.

When the sound of distant horns awakened everyone in the camp the next morning, his uncle was absent from the camp. Knights and Unsullied staggered alike to ready their horses and arms on a moment's notice, and it was several minutes afterwards when Trystane saw his uncle riding furiously from the village to back to their camp.

"Yer late," Connington shouted at him in contempt, as he clumsily donned the armor that fit rather tightly upon the man. "Hope you had a good night, the northern banners are here."

Oberyn shrugged. "If it was to be our last night in this world, then I had a better one than you."

The red haired lord spit on the ground. "We'll be outnumbered, the army will continue to retreat east." He pointed towards a distant range of hills, their highest ridges still hidden under the morning fog. "We'll take cover in the mountains, they'll have to rip us out root and stem. Dorne will form the rearguard, and protect the retreat!"

Without another word, Connington was off on his horse, while his uncle rode swiftly towards a small entrenchment Trystane had helped dig the previous night, reaching from the edge small beach nearby towards the base of the gentle hills rising above them. Running on his two feet, Trystane moved to follow, but his uncle waved him back.

"Go with them," Oberyn shouted.

"I won't leave you," Trystane screamed back, searching for his horse. "I'll be brave this time!"

"Your sword won't make a difference. But your name does!"

He would've argued further, if a column of Unsullied didn't interrupt their discourse, positioning themselves at the head of their line, and by the time they'd passed, his uncle had disappeared.

So for the second time this war, Trystane ran.

* * *

**Catelyn**

_"To Sansa, the Merciful!"_

_"To Sansa, the Wise!"_

_"To Sansa, the Conciliator!"_

The roars of the crowd followed the royal wheelhouses all the way from the Red Keep to the Great Sept, and the Queen Dowager wept in her heart for her daughter. Though within the span of a few fortnights Sansa had become perhaps the most beloved King or Queen to sit on the Iron Throne since Baelor the Blessed, only a mother knew the price she paid for their popularity across the realms.

The whispers had spread to the Keep by the time the little Queen returned to the castle. Her face looked strong, emotionless, as Catelyn watched her daughter's footsteps echo towards the Queen Dowager's solar from the window above. Behind her, Hoster Tully had to stop himself from swearing, and try and regain his composure for the return of his favorite grandchild, who'd given them such an unruly and unexpected shock with this...rash...or was it actually a wise decision, or could it be both?

Her father's face was stern when Ser Balon accompanied Sansa into the room. Wisely, the young Kingsguard stepped outside, and closed the door behind him. Catelyn did not believe Hoster would speak to the Queen in a manner too crossly, but any anger the either one of them possessed vanished when the poor girl ran into her mother's arms and her soft blue eyes broke out in tears, sobbing hysterically as her small body shook within Catelyn's embrace.

_"I'm...I'm so sorry...," the Queen had whimpered, between gasps of weeping, "I...I wasn't thinking..."_

_"It's our fault," Hoster muttered, placing his hand assuredly on her back. "We shouldn't have left you out there alone, with the Imp..."_

_Managing to recompose herself for a second, Sansa withdrew from her arms before she spoke, her pitiful and swollen eyes alternating between the two of them._

_"Oh it wasn't Lord Tyrion's fault, grandpapa, he had nothing to do with my foolishness, he said nothing...please don't punish him!"_

_As if Hoster Tully and the Queen Dowager could punish their fellow member of the Small Council as a parent would do a truculent child._

_"It's all my fault," Sansa had continued, shaking her head in a fit, "the battle was so horrid, so awful, and I thought, if I could do something to end the war...to end all the wars...it has to be my duty to do it, isn't it?"_

_"It's our fault," Catelyn had repeated as she took her daughter back into her arms again. Next to them, her father looked sadly at the ground, and for a moment Catelyn thought he was close to shedding a tear himself._

The crowds roared when the Queen stepped out of the wheelhouse, the noise never dying down as she ascended the steps to the Sept. At its top, Sansa turned, and gave a shy wave to the people...her people, and their cries in response were so thunderous that the Dowager Queen feared the building itself would shake at its foundations.

And in that moment, Catelyn Tully thought she'd never seen a girl so sad.

Recalling later that day, nearly an hour after she'd ran first into her mother's arms, Hoster having left the solar out of sheer uneasiness by then, her daughter's whimpers finally died down, and the Queen raised her tiny head from Catelyn's lap, looked her mother in the eye, and said the words that broke her heart freshly anew, so soon after Pyke.

_"War really is the worst."_

_It shouldn't have been your burden to bear,_ Cat cursed to herself, walking behind her daughter into the building. _Leading a country in war, awaiting a deadly siege, dressed up in strange armor and forced to witness with your virgin eyes the worst battle this country has known since the rebellion. _ And now, she was burdened to marry a cowardly dragonseed, who could very well turn out to be as bad as his father and older brother. Or worse.

Yet, what choice did they have then, to curse one child and spare the other? And what choices did they have now?

_"The boy Bran," Petyr had asked, when it was just she and her friend and her late husband's Hand, "what kind of boy is he, what kind of man will he be?"_

_"I don't know," Catelyn shook her head. "He wants to be a soldier, a fighter like his brother. He trains hard with the sword and the bow, but hasn't taken to it so easily yet, like Robb at his age."_

_For once, she did not know what Petyr was thinking. Her father clearly preferred Sansa for the throne, as did Lord Renly, though they all knew, including the man himself, that his word carried little weight in light of his failures with the Greyjoy war. Jon Arryn leaned towards Bran, and so did Catelyn, though she'd said nary a word herself while they discussed the issue solemnly at that morning's Council meeting._

_"He likes books," Catelyn added. "He's better suited to be a maester, I think, rather than a soldier. I'd thought to maybe send him to the Citadel, before..."_

_Her voice caught._

_"Perhaps one day he may resemble the Warrior himself," Petyr said, pacing her solar while she and Jon Arryn sat, a respite from the earlier Council meeting, except their work never really ended now. "Perhaps one day Bran will be like King Eddard, the souls of the Father and the Warrior embodied in the form of one man."_

_Jon Arryn shook his head. "I never knew you to be such a pious man, Baelish."_

_"Perhaps I am, perhaps I'm not." Her childhood friend leaned down onto the table, propping his hands between the wife and the Hand. "I know this country is a pious one. And this country is at war, fighting against a dynasty that ruled over it for most of the last three hundred years."_

_"Your point," Jon asked, waving his bony fingers impatiently._

_"We need a symbol, my lord. The Targaryens are Fire and Blood, everyone knows this well, they've ruled the seven kingdoms for centuries through fear. The Starks...no offense to your late husband, Your Grace, but justice and fairness and stern silent glares into the distance only goes so far with the people, in a country where six of the seven kingdoms could give less than two shits about winter three seasons out of four...pardon my language."_

_"You want to use my daughter as a symbol," Catelyn spat at her friend, her voice a guttural moan._

_"She is already, like it or not. Rhaegar was a symbol too...youth, chivalry, honor...the promise of the future..."_

_"That's a sham," Jon muttered._

_"It is. But some in this country still remember him that way, else Rhaegar never could have won at Pyke." The little boy from the Fingers resumed his pacing. "Rhaegar's star faded, because of his own choices. He abducted a maiden fair from the North, he raped her, he killed her, though his actions...and he lost an inheritance and a dynasty because of it. Yet now he returns, to despoil the land like an Ironborn reaper, because of his greed, his lust."_

_Petyr turned to her._

_"I'm sorry Cat. I know you love your daughter, she is your own, in so many ways. But your husband's dynasty is weak now, and will remain weak for some time. Think of the story we'll need to tell, not so that we can keep this little castle we have here," he waved one hand in the air, "but that we can keep our heads, so we can keep alive your children, the little Princes and Princesses."_

_"What story is this?"_

_Cat could tell from his eyes, the way his voice wavered just slightly, that Jon Arryn was truly listening to Petyr's words now. And they did make sense to her...had they been spoken about someone else's daughter, and not her own._

_"Many years ago there was a fair prince, who had all his heart could desire, a beautiful wife, two beautiful children, and the greatest inheritance in all the known world. But blood flowing through his heart grew prideful, and lustful, and foul, so took the maiden, the flower of the North, Lyanna Stark, and plunged the realm into a terrible war. Now he returns, and with his allies, these Ironborn pirates, Rhaegar the rapist, the defiler and killer of maidens, they all seek to take and reap of our lands, our peoples, just like he did the poor girl after the Tourney at Harrenhal. _

_But the Gods are just, they will protect the weak, the innocent, the righteous...then send to us, to protect us, one of their own, the Maiden incarnate. The songs of Lyanna Stark were ones of tragedy. But the ones they will sing of her niece, Queen Sansa Stark, the innocent, the holy, the virtuous, will inspire seven kingdoms. Men will rise and fight not just because of their vows of fealty to their lords and wardens, but to protect their innocent and pious Queen, blessed by the Seven...because if they can't do that, how can they protect the maidens in their midst, the innocents they so love and cherish, when they turn their heads not against just the Iron Throne, but the very Gods themselves?"_

It was all Petyr's fault, Catelyn thought. Yet, the war was won, was it not? Perhaps he'd been right, in the end. And while the battle instead had been won through Lannister...trickery, who knew whether or not it was the picture of an innocent girl in need of protection which had inspired the Imp to confess his treachery and make true for past sins?

And much as her father still insisted on begrudging him for events which seemed more ancient than ever, Catelyn wished more than anything for Petyr to return. They were powerful men, her father and Jon Arryn, wise too, yet Petyr was cleverer by half compared to both of them. He would know what to do with this problem with Viserys, Catelyn thought, or she hoped.

_"Is there anything we can do," she'd asked her father, after she'd laid her daughter to bed._

_"Is there anything we should do," Hoster Tully had replied frustratingly in turn._

_"You can't mean to let her follow through with this foolishness," Catelyn shouted too hysterically for her taste, "she doesn't want to marry him, I can see it in her eyes."_

_"So can I." Father shook his head. "I don't want to see it through. But Jon Arryn..."_

_"You spoke to him?"_

_"I did," Hoster replied. "I went to the Hand's tower, while you consoled Sansa. They're tending to his wounds, the man's body is weak, yet his mind..." He shook his head again, more fervently this time. "Dammit, the girl made the promise before nearly half the Seven Kingdoms. 'A promise is a promise,' Jon said, 'how will it look upon all our houses if we break it?'"_

_"Damned Arryn honor," Cat swore, her father not objecting to her choice in language this time._

_"I swear though," Hoster continued, with annoyance in his voice, "the way he speaks, I think he actually agrees with the move, thinks it'll embarrass Rhaegar enough to finish his claims, once and for all. But it's not his own blood he thinks of, when he speaks of such things. Stannis too, I don't expect a man like him would stand for broken vows."_

_"Can we arrange to the man to be killed? Discretely?" She didn't need to whisper or speak cautiously of this dark idea which had been bubbling in her mind all day, because he was her father, and they both knew how the other truly felt about this betrothal._

_Hoster Tully gave her words some thoughts, before his shoulders sagged. "Jon'll never agree to that."_

_"Discretely," Cat repeated, emphasizing the word._

_Hoster sighed. "If he ever finds out, he'll banish me to the Wall, and send you to the Silent Sisters. At best." A resigned grin grew upon his face. "Doesn't matter for me, the ride north would probably kill me well before I fall into Tywin Lannister's hands...but think about what losing us will do to Sansa."_

_"She's the only thing I'm thinking of right now," she'd replied, just as firmly._

The High Septon stepped forward, and bride and groom approached him from either direction. They were a rather plain couple, Catelyn thought, the girl Lollys Stokeworth, though she was very much a woman almost as old as Catelyn herself, seemed much jollier about the ceremony than her soon to be husband, a rather nervous looking knight named Ser Dontos Hollard. Such a ceremony would normally not be worth the High Septon's time, much less be conducted in the Great Sept and see the attendance of the Queen and all her royal family and advisors, except the war was over, and the city needed a celebration, a release from all the recent tension, and House Stokeworth, one of the few in the Crownlands who'd remained loyal to their side, needed to see the reward of the Crown's favor.

The royal family sat alone in a high alcove, overlooking the wedding and all gathered to witness it, just Cat and her father and children, along with a few close friends, Jeyne Poole next to Sansa, and little Shireen Baratheon next to Arya. Shireen's father sat one level below them, the grim man who'd just won them the battle, positioned next to the man whose mind had won the war. Dipping her eyes downwards, Catelyn watched the Imp make conversation with his uncle Kevan, and his son Lancel, whom she guessed had been amongst the many her daughter must've knighted nearly a fortnight ago. She should trust him, Cat scolded herself. Despite withholding the entreaties from the Targaryens initially, Tyrion had done everything in his power to win back for his family the Crown's favor, and she ought not begrudge him for the crimes of his father. If anything, they were almost tied by family, what with Tyrion's sister married to Ned's brother. Catelyn never liked the woman, another reason she'd been hesitant with the Lannisters, but the little Lord of Casterly Rock seemed entirely different from the rest of this family, and in a good way.

Directly opposite them in the circular Sept sat their captive Targaryen princeling. With Jon Arryn still recuperating in the Tower of the Hand, Cat locked eyes with her sister and the boy she held in her arms, in the prince's section along with Margaery Tyrell, another woman she didn't trust. And what about Lysa? Through sixteen years of living in the same castle together, they'd rarely exchanged words besides mere courtesies ever since she arrived in King's Landing with a newborn babe in her arms, and Lysa remained barren until nearly ten years after. If anything, Sansa's new betrothal probably broke the last bridge in their relationship, Lysa having been under the illusion ever since her coronation that Sansa would be marrying her son Robin one day, even though her own husband Jon had been insistent on a marriage that would create new alliances, not cement already existing ones.

At least the Targaryen boy was their problem now. In the end, they'd agreed to send him up to the Eyrie, an impregnable castle that would make impossible any attempts towards either escape or rescue. There, they could delay any actual marriage, and with Jon Arryn's eyes and ears following Viserys Targaryen all day and night, Cat could only hope that the boy's actions would give them some reason to break the betrothal, especially if he were to show any signs of the madness in his father. Cat suspected too that Jon Arryn did not exactly trust her and Hoster's intentions towards the Prince, and rightfully so, making his stay in the Vale as much for his own protection as it was to prevent them from losing their hostage against Rhaegar.

"He's so ugly," she heard Jeyne whispering to Sansa. "I thought Targaryen Princes were supposed to be the fairest knights in all the land."

Her daughter shrugged sadly. "Maybe the stories they tell us aren't always the truth."

How cruel was this world, for her daughter to have to learn such ugly truths at her young age?

* * *

**Rhaegar**

"This surprises you, our brother's betrayal?"

His sister was a clever one. Often, it amused him, but the problem was that sometimes she didn't know when to stop, particularly on a day like today.

"This doesn't surprise you, sister?"

News of the defeat and Viserys's betrayal had arrived several fortnights before, first a scroll from the Spider, who had somehow managed to send them the news even while he himself was fleeing the scene of the battle, the entire continent, for the matter. A weary and disheveled arrival in Pentos by Varys had brought even worse news, that of the massive defeat in the Neck inflicted by Benjen Stark's army. Connington had escaped on a boat to Braavos, the Spider believed, as well as a decent number of that expedition, but there was no word yet on the highborn Dornish Princes who'd accompanied their northern invasion, which meant yet another fresh headache for the King.

Daenerys looked away towards the ocean. There were no magisters or archons accompanying them in their small council held outside the manor, just the King, and his dwindling inner circle. Ser Lewyn looked away awkwardly as well. Was he thinking about his nephew Oberyn, or his grandnephew Trystane, whom the man had never even met? Certainly it could be said that House Martell suffered as much as any family in the wars before and since, nearly as much as his own. Would this be the last straw, Rhaegar wondered, could Viserys's betrayal be the reason for the Prince Doran to quit the game he had so recently reentered?

"You should have sent me," Daenerys looked back at him, her eyes shining with the intensity of a true dragon. "I wouldn't have made the same mistakes. I wouldn't have fallen for the Lannister trap. I wouldn't have bent the knee to Queen Sansa, even if she offered _me_ her hand in marriage."

"No, you wouldn't have," Rhaegar muttered. He sat this evening in his wheelchair, a contraption some enterprising merchant from Volantis had made for him. Rhaegar tried avoiding it as much as he could, insisting on proceeding on foot and cane the short walks from one room to another he had to make on a daily basis, but he had little energy left in him today, after yet another round of bad news. "Thoughts, Varys?"

"On the Princess leading the war," the eunuch replied carefully, looking between brother and sister. "Viserys was rash in his actions, that was true..."

Rhaegar interrupted him sharply. "Did you believe the Lannisters as he did?"

"I wasn't sure, to be honest," Varys admitted, eyes looking over the king as if he were the questioner, and not the questioned. "I didn't have the time to ascertain, at the time. Certainly the possibility could not be ruled out, that they were lying, or that their renewed loyalty was genuine. I suggested to the Prince a course of caution, to test their allegiance, before we committed to anything, or made a massive decision hinging upon one messenger and one scroll, but certainly the Prince was...most eager, Your Grace, to win the war for you as immediately as he could."

Rhaegar sighed. Of course he'd had his doubts about giving Viserys leadership over the war, how could he not? But what other choice did he have, a broken man who couldn't even walk upright more than a few minutes at a time. Obviously sending Daenerys would have been out of the question, so Rhaegar had to accept the inevitable, that despite their initial success on Pyke, taking an entire country, without a great dragon at their head, had always been the riskiest gamble, and so now it had failed, as most wagers often do.

"Now what," he asked softly, though not just at Varys, but directing the question towards his sister and Ser Lewyn also. "The war's lost, but at least the girl offered Viserys her terms. Our dynasty isn't completely dead."

_Just dead in name._

His sister and Kingsguard still stared out at the waves, and no one answered except for Varys.

"Are you happy with that, Your Grace? For Viserys to be king...or merely a consort, who knows? For your brother, who failed in war, to be rewarded as the one to continue the line of the dragon?"

What other choice did he have? Certainly after these two disastrous defeats, hospitable or courteous they may continue to be, no magister or Prince would ever buy him another army again, no bank would loan him the gold. No, perhaps it was for the best if he ordered Varys to take care of his sister, entrust her a place of safety and comfort, then instruct Ser Lewyn to push his chair into the ocean, and let the waves take him from this weary life...the great Rhaegar Targaryen, the Young Dragon, the Dragon who Sang, to die in the east, his last notes a few sad whimpers as the sun set upon the greatest dynasty ever known in all recorded history.

_But the Dragon must have three heads._

He saw his sister's eyes upon him, begging him, beseeching him, though for what, Rhaegar could not tell. Finally, Varys spoke again.

"The Prince's temper was...a problem, Your Grace, if I may speak honestly." Rhaegar nodded, what did small courtesies matter at this point, and Varys continued. "We lost allies we had...we lost allies we might've gained..."

"Yes, I know," he interrupted, it was rare for the Spider to rub salt in the wound.

"...but his allies are the Starks now. And their allies, his allies. Perhaps the Tully's and Arryns named the girl to the Throne because the country would rally around her, as it has...a wise decision, because why worry about tomorrow when you need to survive today? And survive they did...but tomorrow is now at hand, today, and her grasp upon her crown will slip with each and every day, because she _is_ a girl, because the people, lords and smallfolk alike, will forget their love and their devotion to her, as the realm returns to peace. Day by day, as her very elderly patrons wither and die, they'll see her less as their beautiful and beloved child Queen, and more as a weakness, they'll see her as a piece of meat, meant to be devoured by them."

Rhaegar turned to look at him. They all did, though he thought Daenerys's eyes were narrowed rather angrily at the Spider.

"What do you advise, Lord Varys?"

"Patience, Your Grace," the Spider replied, eyes dancing for the first time since his escape and return across the Narrow Sea. "Patience, caution, and care. We tried war. The war failed, and we have fewer today who can lead us in the next war. But there's more than one way to hunt a wolf."

* * *

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**Notes and Responses:** Thanks all for reading and reviewing thus far! First off, Jorah was pardoned, Sansa said she'd pardon her if Viserys agreed to her terms. As for marrying Viserys...well, from the eyes of the audience we know it's a very bad move. But Sansa doesn't know that (and neither does Tyrion, through whose eyes we see it transpiring). Whether you believe it a wise move to the end the war, or a stupid decision, certainly it can't be argued that it was a rash one, one made in the heat of the moment...by a twelve year old girl who's already been traumatized and stressed beyond measure by the pressure of having to "lead" a country through a war, and having to witness firsthand a brutal and bloody battle.

One useful disclaimer, which I included in the tags when I posted this on AO3, is that there will be many "ships" in this story, and all of them are tbd because...well, it's part of the story. Not all of the relationships will be good, or healthy, or wanted by the author. Not all of them will be permanent either, some may be endgame, and some may be temporary.

As for Dorne, I've kept their motives in the background purposefully, so as to reveal things a little bit at the time. All we know now, that's been revealed in the story, is that yes, Ned did give them some justice, and that appears to be why Oberyn isn't keen to fight this war. It also seems like Rhaegar has agreed to marry Arianne, and make her his Queen as well. There has also been mention of the Starks having insulted Dorne, and the Martells. And Catelyn did recall all the years Robb "wasted" in Dorne.

I'd imagine we'll find out more about Dorne in the coming chapters.

And it wasn't just the Greyjoys who killed Ned and Robb, but also Connington, and the Dornish army, and banners from the Crownlands, and some Unsullied and Second Sons...basically all of them save the Greyjoys continued on the northern expedition we follow through Trystane's eyes, after Pyke.

As for the nobles and smallfolk worshiping the ground Sansa walks upon, that prediction seems to have materialized in this chapter already. But as Varys says to Rhaegar, such sentiments can be fleeting indeed. And it seems her move almost worked, Rhaegar was pretty close to being despondent and giving up, but it looks as if Varys still has a few tricks up his sleeves. I'm not sure whether Rhaegar would ever agree to take the Black (especially with Tywin Lord Commander), but in a perfect world he could probably be convinced to live the rest of his life in Illyrio's palace in Pentos.

...except he still believes himself to be a figure of prophecy, and has to fulfill his destiny. As for Connington, I think he loves Rhaegar, probably is indifferent to Dany, and probably dislikes Viserys. And because of his dedication to Rhaegar (I believe in canon he's in love with the man), he probably sees this as a very cruel betrayal from Viserys, and would probably cut him down personally, if Rhaegar ever gave him permission.

Finally, I mentioned when posting this story elsewhere too, the fantasy and magical elements of this world will be very much toned down...but there will be something of an in-story explanation for it.


	9. The Spoils of Summer

**Jon**

There was still blood on his sword. The day was hot and muggy, the air clinging heavily upon his skin even as the sun rose and their horns blared and Jon watched alongside his uncle the Karstark and Bolton cavalry swoop down from the hills and cut through the enemy at the first light. He'd gotten his first kill, and second, and much more during the battle, losing count fairly quickly into it. Riding south, hearing word from the scouts that the enemy was near, he wondered how that would feel, to inflict pain, to take someone's life with his own hands. He'd felt nothing while he was fighting, because it was battle, and there was too much else to think about, namely keeping his head and avoiding getting run through by the enemy's swords, to ruminate further.

Now it was over, and with the victory came the spoils. While the lords raided the camp behind the battlefield, all the soldiers who weren't highborn greedily devoured the dead and dying, spread from the grassy field all the way to the beach nearby, taking what they would from the remains of the dead, swords, shields, armor, any gold or coin they may have carried. Many of the dead were young men, Jon saw, his own age, or younger, their eyes doomed to be glazed over in fear and terror forevermore. Even the foreign mercenaries, masks covering their faces, strange, plain, lacking any kind of expression, made Jon wonder. They were slaves, they said, bred to obey and kill from practically the womb. Did they fear death? Did it matter to them, Jon asked himself, that they would die here in a strange land, so faraway from their mothers and fathers? Or was it all the same to them, the fields of war, whether east or west?

"Fancy robes on that one o'er there!"

"Move kid, or I swear you'll join him..."

A crowd had gathered around the body of an older man, adorned in the finest golden silks Jon had ever seen, finer than even anything the Lady Cersei ever wore. The dead man wore no armor, a small vein of blood trickled from his mouth, and his smooth robes were spoiled and ripped and bloodied in several dark spots by his chest and abdomen. His eyes were closed, his face appearing rather peaceful, while arms and legs hung outstretched from his body not in agony, Jon thought, but forever in the position of a man in the middle of running, hands gripped upon his spear as if the warrior were still ready and primed for his next kill.

"Leave him for the Greatjon," he heard a voice call from behind, "he's the one who cut him down."

Draping over the man's midsection was a smaller body, and Jon figured they would've assumed him dead if he weren't weeping softly over the dead man.

"That's Prince Oberyn Martell," Jon asked the boy, standing over the body, and recognizing the sigil of the spear and sun upon his robes.

He raised his head, his brown eyes gazing fearfully at Jon, and he gasped at how young the boy looked, close to Myrcella's age, if Jon had to guess. The boy did not say a word in response, but moved his head up and down twice, slowly.

"You knew him?"

"He was my uncle," the boy said bravely.

"Clear the body," Jon ordered, as more and more northerners moved in, whether out of greed, or sheer curiosity. His gaze returned to the boy. "You're a Martell?" A nod in the affirmative. "A Prince too?" Another light nod.

Jon reached out his hand, but the boy drew back in fright.

"Come," he said, trying to sound as innocuous as possible. "Lord Benjen will want to see you." When the boy didn't answer, he continued, a bit more frustrated now. "We won't hurt you, boy. The battle's over. The _war's_ over...I think, or nearly so."

It was a promise Jon was fairly certain of. Other lords like the Greatjon or old Karstark may well take the boy's head after downing a few ales, just for a good laugh, but that wasn't the way Uncle Benjen did things, Jon didn't think. Regardless, the boy was a highborn, and there were...politics involved in that realm that he would be well done to pass along to the Lord of Winterfell.

The boy didn't take his hand, but instead stood up on his own, with a cursory motion first to dust off the dirt and blood from his similarly rich robes. Slowly, a path formed as the crowd parted to let them pass. Satisfied that the boy was following him, Jon saw Robin Flint amongst the crowd, a younger, reasonable man less prone to wildness, whom Benjen had trust to lead their left flank along the beach.

"See to it the Prince's remains are respected, that he gets a proper burial."

* * *

**Catelyn**

"...and for your loyalty and actions in defeating the Targaryen invaders during the siege, we do hereby invite, on behalf of Queen Sansa, First of Her Name, the Lord Tyrion, of House Lannister, to take the fifth and final place in the Her Grace's Regency Council."

His gait was still unsteady, but Jon Arryn had recovered well enough to attend the Small Council meetings, and in time to pay House Lannister the debts owed to them.

"I accept," the small man said rather casually, then looked around the room, an almost mischievous glint in his eye. "That's it? No secret ceremonies involving a prodigious amount of lemoncakes, or something similar of the sort?"

No one laughed, not even the man's uncle, but it was Petyr who quickly stepped in and moved the conversation forward. "I myself have no position upon it, but I can safely assume that I can speak for all upon Her Grace's Regency Council, Lord Tyrion, that your wit and your wisdom will be greatly appreciated in the years to come."

A secretive grin was exchanged between the two clever men, and Jon coughed impatiently, obviously eager to move on to his next item.

"It's abundantly clear that, in lieu of the failure upon Pyke, and all the enemies remaining who continue to threaten Her Grace's domains and peoples, the Small Council needs to be expanded to better consider and manage the wars to come, across all fronts. A new position is hearby added, a Master of War, to oversee the crown's overall strategy in defending the realm. Lord Stannis, with your victory outside this very city, with all that you have done for the Crown since the war against Aerys, it is abundantly obvious there is no better man for the title."

The stern Lord of Storm's End merely grunted his approval and acceptance, and Jon Arryn continued, turning next to the man seated next to Tyrion.

"Lord Kevan, you led the Lannister armies in defending this city and your Queen. Your loyalty to the Crown is undeniable, and Her Grace wishes you to take Lord Stannis's place as the realm's Master of Ships..."

Conspicuously absent from the Queen's meeting was the Queen herself. The war had not been kind to her daughter, and it had been agreed by all that, with the war over, there was little need for Sansa to attend in person all the many Small Council meetings, not for the first years of her Regency anyhow. Cat agreed, and so did Sansa when they told her the news, that the girl would be better off resuming her lessons, and spending her time with her friends, the girls and ladies closer to her own age. Obviously, her lessons would have to be amended, more regarding history and statecraft and the sort, less time spent learning song and dance, though Sansa had insisted on continuing her needlework lessons with Septa Mordane every other day.

"...obviously with the Targaryens defeated," the newest member of their Small Council began, "the matter of the Greyjoy insurgency can no longer be ignored. Balon Greyjoy's defiance is both an insult to the Crown, and a direct threat to the lands of my family, the lands of Lord Hoster and the Queen Dowager's, and the realms of House Stark." He looked to Stannis. "A blockade will be necessary to start things off, to cut off them from both this continent and Essos, though we cannot divert too many ships so as to leave the Sunset Sea undefended and free for Rhaegar to sail forth his soldiers again, bought and paid for. But, with the assistance of Lord Stannis and everyone on this Council, we will bring these pirates to heel."

"There is the matter of Dorne too," Petyr added from the far side of the table, reserved for those who sat on the Small Council but not upon the smaller Regency Council. In addition to Lord Baelish in that outer circle, sat Archmaester Ebrose, and Ser Cortnay Penrose, one of Stannis's most trusted commanders, newly named as the Lord Commander of the Queensguard. The Queen Dowager herself fell into a unique category, Catelyn mused, the only one sitting at the table and was part of the Regency Council, but not the Small Council.

"The war would not have happened were it not for Dorne's betrayal," her father said next to her. "King Eddard would not have been defeated and assassinated in Pyke, were it not for Dorne's betrayal."

"We've received no response from Prince Doran since the Battle of King's Landing," Jon added. "As such, I believe the Council ought to state firmly and unequivocally that, until a full surrender to the Iron Throne is received from Prince Doran, the Kingdom of Dorne is hereby declared to be in a state of active and hostile rebellion against the Crown."

"Except war against Dorne is easier said than done," Tyrion replied firmly, his demeanor serious once they began the discussion of matters of state. "The Targaryens could not conquer Dorne with dragons, it was through diplomacy in which the Rhoynar submitted to the Crown. There's the matter of marriage, though such options become more limited with the Queen's betrothal with Viserys Targaryen, although not impossible. With Your Grace's approval, of course," Tyrion looked carefully at Cat before continuing, "an arrangement could be made between the Princess Arya and one of Prince Doran's sons. And while the...matter...with the Princess Arianne Martell I was not aware of until fairly recently, perhaps it may not be entirely impossible to betroth her to the Prince of Dragonstone."

"Bran is a child," Catelyn said very carefully, holding down the urge to snap at the mention of such a distasteful union for her eldest surviving son. Following the Targaryen traditions, they'd named Robb the Prince of Dragonstone in recognition of his position as heir to the Iron Throne. For Bran, while he remained Sansa's heir for now, he would hold his title for the rest of his life, to be passed down to his children, and theirs, so as to create a strong but separate branch of House Stark.

_"Perhaps his descendants and Sansa's may break out in a bloody war of succession several generations down the line," Petyr had confided to her in private, agreeing with her father's plans, while Catelyn herself remained uneasy at the idea. "We can't control the future, we can't predict it, all we can do, is do the best we can to ensure peace in our time, while we live ourselves, and for the children we've lived to see with our own eyes. To strive for any more than that, is to challenge the Gods themselves."_

"We have Prince Trystane," Stannis grumbled. "That ought to be diplomacy enough. Reward the lords for rebelling, and other lords will start following their example."

"We have Prince Doran's _youngest_ child," Tyrion reminded them. "Maybe he cares for boy, maybe not. But holding Trystane does not threaten the inheritance of House Martell in Dorne."

"The crimes of Dorne against the Crown are heavy," the Archmaester said. "They helped Rhaegar murder our King, lest we forget. A simple surrender and the holding of one hostage ought not absolve this stray kingdom from their sins. I propose that, in addition to bending the knee, in addition to keeping Prince Trystane in the care of Lord Benjen in Winterfell until _four_ years past his majority, we also demand the Prince Doran pay the Crown reparations in the sum of 70,000 dragons."

"It's a steep price," Stannis said, though he spoke in a tone which indicated his agreement with the Archmaester. "But what if Doran refuses to pay? Is it war?"

"We can consider another blockade," Kevan said, "certainly cut them off from Pentos and Braavos, maybe even Tyrosh."

This time it was Cat who objected. "Wouldn't that risk war with the Free Cities?"

She was no naive summer girl, the threat of war was ever present, whether she wanted it or not. But the Gods help her, she did not want to watch her daughter suffer the consequences of another horrible conflict so soon after this one, not at least until she came of age and was a woman grown.

"Your Grace, my lords, we should not delve so much on the Martells."

She thought she saw her father roll his eyes out of the corner of her eye, but Petyr's words caught the attention of Jon Arryn, as was typical. "Pray elaborate further, Lord Baelish."

"It's true, we have the Prince Trystane. We also hold, in King's Landing, Ser Gulian Qorgyle, the heir to Sandstone, Ser Andrey Dalt, the former heir, now Lord of Lemonwood with the death of his brother Deziel in battle. Lord Benjen has captured in the North not just Trystane but also Ser Ryon Allyrion, heir to Godsgrace...the maesters don't expect Lord Daeron Vaith to recover from his wounds...but we can withhold that information for the time being...Dorne may believe themselves independent from the Crown...yet all their future lies within our hands."

"But is it enough for Prince Doran to submit," Hoster asked.

"Maybe," Petyr said, "maybe not. But certainly his nobles will want him to submit, perhaps even the smallfolk...I hear the dashing young Ser...ahem, Lord Andrey is quite popular with his peoples."

"It's a shame the Yronwood boy was able to escape with Connington," Ser Cortnay added angrily.

"Then let us make it to our advantage," Petyr said, his reply as smooth as silk at the new Lord Commander. "House Dayne remained loyal to the Crown in this war. Young Cletus Yronwood...sorry, _Lord_ Cletus, it's hard to keep track of which lords lived and which lords died during the battle...is considered a rebel and a fugitive from the Crown, and so his lands and castles will be given to House Dayne."

Tyrion nodded his agreement. "In name, at the very least. And Yronwood is close enough to the coast where we may even be able to hold it. Whether we should, is to be determined."

"The west of Dorne is more Andal in culture and custom," Jon said, deep in thought, "compared to the lands east of the Vaith River. House Manwoody's ties with the Daynes may be stronger than their ties with Sunspear. The Fowlers could be convinced, if we give them some of the Yronwood holdings..."

"Convinced of what," Tyrion asked. "Rebellion against House Martell?"

Petyr nodded. "This was Prince Doran's war, to make his daughter Rhaegar's Queen. Yet all of Dorne suffered and died for it, all of Dorne sees their futures in doubt, for the sake of one Prince, and one Princess."

"If we could foment war and dissent from within," Tyrion said, slowly coming to Petyr and Jon's understanding of the matter, "I suppose it would be better than making war outright."

"In the meantime," Stannis murmured quietly but firmly, "we put a bounty on the heads of the Prince and his two children. It's unlikely Doran will ever step foot outside of Sunspear or the Water Gardens again, but should Arianne or Quentyn ever think to leave Dorne, or even venture anywhere close to Yronwood or Starfall, we bring them in alive as more hostages for the Crown."

"How old is Beric's squire," Jon asked, thinking to himself, "nine or ten years of age? We declare that if the Prince Doran has not agreed to our terms by the time the boy reaches the age of four and ten, we will declare Lord Edric Dayne the new Prince and Lord Paramount of Dorne."

Though they'd all been considering the possibility since the battle, the transformation of such a radical idea into words certainly brought unease to everyone in the room. How long had it been since a Great House was deposed, Catelyn thought, trying to recall upon her own lessons, and a new one put in its place? There was her own house, raised to paramount status when Aegon the Conqueror swept through the Seven Kingdoms, and the raising of the Tyrells during the same war, and none since, not even during the rebellion against Aerys. How unlikely would it had seemed merely years ago for such a momentous event to take place during her daughter's reign, placing her name in the same breath as the Conqueror himself?

"Obviously, we'd still prefer more pacific terms with the Martells," Tyrion said. "The matter of this past war aside, Dornish customs are more apt to support Her Grace upon the Iron Throne, compared to Andal traditions." He coughed, and looked upon a book he had brought to the meeting. "Speaking of, there is the matter of the Lords of the Reach as well, the conduct of the Tarly's and Tyrells..."

* * *

**Sansa**

"House Hightower sits in Oldtown," the Queen repeated slowly before the maester, "Lord Leyton is the Lord of the Hightower, his son Baelor Hightower his heir. Lord Leyton has ten children, six daughters and four sons. Lord Baelor..."

"Baelor Breakwind," Margaery added with a smile, sitting alongside the same table next to her, and Sansa giggled.

"He farted while he was courting Queen Elia Martell," Bran added, "in front of everyone!"

"Is he an oaf," the Queen whispered conspiratorially, while the maester rolled his eyes impatiently. Certainly Bran was his favorite pupil, Sansa knew, and would've been Maester Cressen's choice for the Throne.

_Probably rightfully so,_ Sansa thought. _Certainly Bran knows his houses and sigils much better than his older sister._

"He's actually far more charming than you'd think by that name," Margaery said, before adding with a wink, "he's never farted in front of me, at the very least."

Sansa was thankful for Margaery's presence. The Reach was her family's kingdom, after all, and it seemed the older girl knew something about each and every member of her vassal houses, and many outside the Reach as well. Yet it made Sansa feel all the dumber, as a Royal Princess she'd seen lords and ladies and heirs from all seven kingdoms come and pay obeisance before her father, yet she remembered so few of their names, their sayings and sigils...just the dumb things, like how handsome the young Waymar Royce was, what a shame he took the Black. And Margaery's brother Loras...the mere thought of it made Sansa want to hug Bran in despair, the realization sinking in once again about how she'd have to spend the rest of her life married to that ugly Targaryen boy, rather than the beautiful Knight of Flowers.

"Ahem," Maester Cressen hummed impatiently, and Sansa descended from her clouds.

"The words of House Hightower are...," the Queen bit her lips nervously, "'_We Light the World_...'"

"_We Light the Way,_" Maester Cressen corrected imperiously.

"Probably the most pretentious words this side of Casterly Rock," Margaery added with a chuckle, and though the Maester looked cross at her remarks, he did not dare comment upon them.

"Have you seen the Hightower," Bran asked, his eyes fascinated by the young lady. He did not await an answer, before continuing. "Is it as tall as the Red Keep? Or taller?"

"Taller," Margaery replied, a childish fascination in her voice. "Taller than even the Wall, where your uncle Benjen lives!"

Bran looked to the maester, who muttered reluctantly, "it is true."

"Some say the Tower was built by creatures from the sea," Margaery continued, her brother now completely captive to the girl's stories now, "half man, half beast..."

"And fins for arms," a raspy voice interrupted their lessons, "and the tail of a mermaid...is that right, Lady Margaery?"

"Lord Baelish," Margaery rose and bowed sweetly, "I did not know you to be a student of such silly stories and lore."

"Your stories aren't silly, Lady Margaery," Bran exclaimed, and uncle Petyr laughed as he hugged her younger brother, and kissed Margaery's hand.

"My lady, my Prince, Maester Cressen." He acknowledged her last. "Your Grace."

"Lord Baelish," Sansa said properly, though they were all friends in the room here, save the maester, she knew it was now time to act not as a child, but as Queen. "Is the Small Council finished for the day yet? Or have they summoned me?"

_Do they need me?_

It had been a relief, when mother told her that she no longer needed to attend their meetings after the war, yet along with it Sansa felt a deep sense of shame, because she knew it was because she'd acted without their permission, and now they were all disappointed in her. Perhaps they would decide yet to name Bran King in her place. She'd be happy for him, she'd kiss his hand and feel herself set free...yet...deep in her heart Sansa knew that such a rejection would sting a hundred times more than being kicked out of the Council meetings.

_I'd know I'm not good enough, rather than have to just worry that I'm not good enough._

Perhaps that would set her free from her betrothal, except...they probably couldn't unseat her from the Throne precisely _because_ of her betrothal to Viserys.

_Gods, would they think that I did so just to keep my crown, would they think I'm so evil and greedy? It's not true! I don't care about the throne, they're the ones who made me sit on it anyway!_

"The meeting is over," Petyr said, interrupting her thoughts, and Sansa wondered whether she had been blushing. "Your Small Council is remarkably efficient, Your Grace, and agreeable." He looked the rest of the room expectantly. "With Your Grace's permission, I'll brief the Queen on the matters discussed."

Taking the hint, they all departed gracefully, leaving her and uncle Petyr alone in the library.

"Lord Tyrion and Lord Kevan accepted," she asked, when she saw that Petyr was awaiting her prompting to begin.

"They did," Petyr agreed, "surely they would not refuse their Queen's most generous offers."

Sansa nodded, pretending to be deep in thought, though in her mind she struggled to think of a subject she ought to ask upon, so as not to appear so dim. "We're still at war with Dorne and the Greyjoys?"

Petyr nodded sadly. "Sadly, Balon Greyjoy claims your the remains of your father and brother, and will not return them unless the Crown recognizes their independence."

If she could have her way, Sansa knew she'd be tempted to give those infuriating islands what they wanted, who cared about a few barren rocks in the ocean anyway? Were father's and Robb's souls still trapped in that watery hell still, did they cry to her from the next world, begging to return home?

"Will we try another invasion then?"

"In time," Petyr returned gently. "When your father first marched west to Pyke, we had only one enemy, we assumed too easily that the dragon slept in the east. Now, we have enemies to the west, to the east, and to the south, so we must not be rash in action."

"I understand," Sansa lied.

"With Dorne," her Master of Coin, and the man she'd known as a good friend, practically family, all her life continued, "diplomacy may be possible."

"Because of Prince Trystane?" Apparently her uncle Benjen and her cousin Jon had captured an enemy Prince in a great battle far in the north. Sansa would rejoice, except she'd heard asked the maester, who'd replied that Trystane Martell was a boy close to herself in age.

_Why do you care about a stranger who fought for the enemy, when so many boys his age or younger died or were hurt badly fighting on your side?_

"And other means of pressure," Petyr assured her. "Alas, those are the enemies we know. My own concern, Your Grace, are the shadows...we see them out of the corner of our eye, but we don't know who they are, or what they want."

"The Tarly's?"

The Prince Viserys had confessed that Randyll Tarly had led his banners against her, until they'd reached the Blackwater.

"Lord Randyll claims his allegiance to the Targaryens was a ruse, to lure them into a sense of false assurance, before abandoning them while they were at their weakest."

"Do you believe him?" It seemed dubious to her, but they would not have captured Viserys were it not for the fact that the Lord of Horn Hill had marched his banners to the southern banks of the Blackwater, blocking all the roads south and forcing the Prince to instead try an escape upon a small boat racing towards the Bay.

"If you'll excuse my language...Your Grace...the man's full of..._shit_." He looked downwards after cursing, seemingly ashamed, before Sansa giggled at her uncle's sudden act of impropriety, and Petyr laughed too along with her, before his voice turned serious again. "The Tarly's are without a doubt traitors, in my mind. But they're too strong to make war upon, and we can't just accuse a man like Randyll Tarly of treason, without significant proof of the matter."

A few minutes listening to Petyr, and she already had a headache. Sansa thanked the gods that she no longer had to attend their meetings, much less actually have to participate and make decisions about such complicated matters when she was older. If only she could have her Regency Council forever...and if only she had been smart enough to heed her Council's advise first before making such a stupid decision to marry that ugly weeping Prince, she would be so much happier. She was happy, spending her days now with Margaery and Jeyne and Bran and even Arya, except when she was reminded about her betrothal, or of all the enemies she still had, who would thrust a knife into her heart even though, they didn't know her, they'd never met her.

"So we have enemies everywhere, but we can't do anything about any of them?"

It was unlike uncle Petyr, to make her feel so much worse about everything, but at least he was honest about it, and told her the plain truth. Not that she begrudged her mother or grandpapa for trying to keep the worst from her, but even with the war won, Sansa could never shake off that sinking feeling in her stomach, that some how death and disaster would fall completely unannounced upon her one sunny day again, like the day the skies and heavens collapsed and she'd learned she'd lost father and Robb.

"Patience, my Queen." Uncle Petyr gestured to the table where she'd just been hard at work studying, and they sat, she in the seat with the dreary book still opened to the page about the Hightowers, and Petyr in the chair Maester Cressen had occupied across from her. With a gentle smile, he resumed. "This realm has been at war since Rhaegar took your aunt Lyanna...every day...even when armies and their lords are not marching back and forth across the land. Even though the war is over, the war continues, because as we speak, our enemies, our allies, they're all thinking, they're all acting, they're all talking and writing each other, whether it be truth or lies...everything that happens now, will determine who marches where, and for what side, in the next war. Do you know how to win a war, Your Grace?"

Obviously she did not. Apparently one offer to sacrifice herself to a horrible marriage wasn't enough to bring peace to the realm. "I don't."

"Lord Tyrion had it right," Petyr continued. "We did not know where Viserys was going to march his armies. Had he marched north against Lord Stannis, and had him surrounded along with Connington and Oberyn Martell...well, with any hope, we'd all be on a ship sailing towards White Harbor right now. But we _did_ win the war, because it was Tyrion Lannister who decided _where_ to fight the battle...not Viserys, or his more seasoned commanders...and Lord Tyrion chose a place that he _knew_ would be ever advantageous to our cause."

Sansa nodded. It all seemed so simple, with Petyr explaining everything, and it gave her heart comfort, that she had such wise men leading the country for her. "So we need to be careful, be patient, and to trick our enemy into doing something foolish, then take advantage of it?"

"And we need to _know_ our enemies," Petyr added, nodding approvingly at her understanding of this much more complex, yet vitally important lesson, "and if we don't know for certain, guess as best we can. We all know what Rhaegar is, a craven, a cripple who could never lead an army of his own again. Little was known of his younger siblings, but one can surmise, of course...a man like Prince Viserys, a young dragon, waiting to be unleashed, impatient to prove himself, his worth, despite lacking the experience...yet because of his blood, holding the command over the heads of the more wiser councilors around him."

Petyr's eyes flicked down to the book below her, and suddenly the Queen saw it in a different light. It wasn't just full of boring names and lists and sigils...but such books held the secrets to knowing her enemies, and winning this endless war! Perhaps without even a battle!

"So Lord Tyrion needs to find out more about Balon Greyjoy and Doran Martell." She stopped, uncle Petyr waiting patiently for the Queen to sort out all the swirling thoughts within her. "And if we can use the knowledge to fool them, if we can make them do what we want them to do, we can defeat them before they can help Rhaegar with another invasion."

Petyr smiled, and raised another eyebrow. "And perhaps, if that happens before you reach your majority, you'd no longer need to marry Viserys Targaryen."

"I...," Sansa began, before averting her eyes from him shyly.

"What is it child?"

Feeling her cheeks flush, she shook her head nervously.

"You can trust me, Sansa. I swear, by the Old Gods and the New, what you tell me in this room...stays in this room."

Biting her lips again, even though mother told her it was a bad habit, that it was uncomely and unbecoming of a Queen, Sansa confessed. "I don't want to marry him."

Mother and grandpapa knew this. So did Arya and Jeyne, and no one else, and no one else could know, Sansa did not need her Regency Council telling her that. But Petyr was practically family, wasn't he? He'd understand. And he did, cupping her hands with his, calming her with his touch.

"It won't be easy, Your Grace. And I can't make any promises, surely you understand that. But what I can do, I will, to help you."

She let out a deep sigh. Could she allow herself to hope, that everything would be alright? With Petyr and her mother and grandpapa on her side, perhaps the Gods could be kind to her, just once.

"Your Grace...you trusted me with a secret..."

"Oh, it's nothing, please Lord Petyr..."

"But I must," Petyr suddenly insisted, his eyes suddenly fearful and apprehensive, resembling the looks of smaller lords who appeared before her in court. "To keep this from my Queen is a terrible burden, a grave sin, I fear."

"To keep what..."

"I failed you, Your Grace. It's the truth, I failed your father, I failed your mother, I failed your brother...I failed the realm. Perhaps, it may be because of me...everything that's happened."

Her heart stopped. "What do you mean?"

"Your Grace, what do you know about your brother's last visit to Dorne?"

Sansa frowned. "He never went back again. And mother and father seemed to...they never said anything more about Dorne...not in front of me, anyway."

Arya had heard there'd been an argument between Robb and the Prince Quentyn, and the two had dueled. It seemed a silly reason to ignite a war, but mother had just told her that the Dornish were a peculiar people, when Sansa had finally gathered the courage to ask her about it two nights before the siege. And it made sense, though Robb had returned to the Keep unwounded, perhaps the Dornish Prince had been hurt worse, maybe that was why he didn't join his younger brother Trystane in the northern invasion.

"He took a ship from Sunspear to Storm's End, didn't he?"

"He did," Sansa said, recalling a happier memory. "The Lady Margaery was there, visiting her cousin! The rains were so bad, the roads were impassible for two fortnights, and Robb and Margaery fell in love!"

_And if Petyr and grandpapa can work together, get Viserys married to some other lady out there, maybe the same song could still happen to me!_

"Yes, they fell in love," Petyr said, an odd bite to his voice, "and Highgarden announced their betrothal."

The Queen cocked her head, puzzled as to why uncle Petyr did not sound as happy about the news as she'd been when she'd first heard it. Lady Margaery had always been her favorite, and Sansa had hugged her brother so tightly when he'd returned, thankful for bringing the beautiful Rose of Highgarden into their family.

"Was there something...," Sansa started, unsure of what exactly to ask Petyr.

"Very few know this," Petyr whispered, looking carefully around the empty library, "and your mother is quite protective...you must promise me to not tell anyone I told you this."

"I promise," Sansa immediately answered, her heart dying to know this secret, even if it meant...well, awful things she dreaded already but could not yet guess at.

"After Prince Robb's return, Lord Renly and I made a secret visit to Dorne, known to no one but your parents and the Small Council."

"I remember," Sansa exclaimed. "They said...you'd gone to seek the...Iron Bank?"

"Your Grace has a good memory," Petyr said nodding, and continued. "If only our trip could have been so pleasant. Prince Doran was...incandescent with rage, when we arrived. He accused Robb Stark of, well...to put it plainly...seducing his daughter Arianne, before he departed..."

Sansa gasped! How could this be true, that Robb would...despoil...a maiden the same way as Rhaegar? How could that happen, how could he then just fall in love with Margaery so immediately afterwards?

"...a stain upon her honor, Prince Doran screamed at us...I don't know whether it came to blows, but I'd certainly expected Prince Quentyn to have tried to defend his sister's honor."

Her mouth was agape, and Sansa could only stutter, unable to even know _how_ to think in light of all these unbelievable revelations. She remembered the stories, about how Petyr had dueled her uncle Brandon, whom she'd never met, when he'd been barely older than herself. How bad was the scar lining his body from that battle, Sansa wondered. Did Robb do something similar to Quentyn? Surely he was able, Sansa knew, Robb being already one of the finest swordsmen in the realm.

"Don't cast blame upon your brother, Your Grace...he's was a young man, handsome, a brilliant swordsman...yet in many ways he was still a boy." Petyr sighed sadly. "Perhaps had the Lady Margaery not been present at Storm's End..."

"Did...," Sansa was afraid to ask, "...did Robb promise to marry Princess Arianne? And then break that promise so he could marry Margaery?"

To her relief, Petyr shook his head. "No promises were made, Prince Doran told me. But when Robb left, he expected that a man of Robb's honor...a _Stark_...would confess his sins to his father, after which their betrothal would be immediately arranged."

"Lady Margaery," Sansa whispered, unable to give voice to her darkest thoughts. Was it her fault, that father and Robb died? Did...could she have _seduced_ Robb, _knowing_ his obligations to the Princess Arianne? Or had Robb been the seducer both times, completely taken over by his...manly _urges_?

_Does this make Robb that much better than Rhaeger, except that both Arianne and Margaery had been willing?_

"Lady Margaery broke poor Arianne Martell's heart," Petyr continued, "Apparently she'd locked herself in her room for weeks, refusing to open the door, except for her servants to deliver her food and water. Prince Doran then showed us a letter from Rhaegar, offering to make Arianne his Queen. He'd met with his uncle Ser Lewyn in secret, he told us, on an island in the Stepstones. Ser Lewyn swore upon his friend Rhaegar's honor, that he was a changed man since the rebellion, that he'd make a good husband for Arianne, that he hadn't so near as touched another woman since fleeing Westeros."

"So we knew Dorne was going to betray us," Sansa whispered, horrified.

"Sadly, we should have. But I was too confident, as was Lord Renly. We thought we'd worked out an arrangement." Again, Petyr put his hands gently upon her own. "We promised you to Prince Quentyn. We promised to wed your uncle Edmure to Arianne. We promised any daughters they had would wed the firstborn son of Robb and Margaery. We promised gold, we promised upon taking his throne, Robb would pass the title of Prince of Dragonstone to Quentyn, who would pass it to the children you were to bear him."

When we returned to King's Landing, we told your father that Prince Doran had agreed to our deal. The price...neither your parents were happy at all about it, it meant they'd have to give practically their dynasty to the Martells...but it was a necessary price, and your father understood. We also told your father that Prince Doran understood just how significant of a sacrifice this was for House Stark, and in return, he would send his fleet to assist King Eddard in putting down the Greyjoy Rebellion."

Petyr hung his head sadly, barely above his chest, and Sansa resisted the urge to hug him, and comfort the poor man.

"Clearly we were so wrong. And it was our mistake, Renly and mine, that we did not know well enough who our enemies were, and what they intended, what they hid deep within their hearts."

Just what could she say to all this? That the betrayal began within her own family? That uncle Petyr and uncle Renly had failed, that her own father had failed, in trusting Doran Martell's promises...that Robb, her big brother, who'd always protected her, who'd always consoled her when she was sad and hurt, who'd given her all the gossip about the pretty knights and squires roaming the halls of the Keep, most of whom worshiped him, same as Sansa...that it had been _Robb_ who'd failed them all, whose mistakes cost him his life, and father's?

"I'm so sorry dear girl," Petyr said, as she remained silent, "to burden you with all this. I had not expected to..."

"It's good I know this," Sansa interrupted, deciding for both of them. "I'm...I'm glad I do."

"You are the Queen," Petyr agreed. It seemed the secret had knocked the wind out of both of them, as Petyr rose to leave, his face gaunt and exhausted, leaving Sansa shaken and frozen at her seat. But before his feet departed the room, Petyr turned. "As I promised, I will do whatever I can to help you...seek other choices for your future. But if not...," he looked down the hallway then back at her, and shrugged, "...a betrothal began this war. Perhaps it's appropriate it ends the same way."

* * *

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**Notes and Responses:** More emerges about Dorne. But considering the source, I wonder if it's the whole truth, or the truth at all...


	10. Peace in Our Time

**Jon - Year 298**

It was the first time in years he'd felt the bite of the cold air upon his skin. Winter was coming, they all said on the march back to Winterfell. As wave after wave of grizzled soldiers rode past Greywater Watch and Moat Cailin, news trickled in from further north, of mornings which saw the brittle grass frozen over, and several reports of summer snows from Deepwood Motte all the way down to White Harbor. It'd been the longest summer in memory, a memory which took up most of his life, but many thought this year would finally see its end.

They'd avoided all such portents riding through the hills above the Bite, searching for any remnants of the enemy invaders. The battle had served its purpose for the enemy, it had seemed, it'd bought Rhaegar's man Jon Connington time enough to march further east, and though they'd given chase, there had been no signs of the invaders save a few stragglers here and there, hiding in the hills. Sooner rather than later, Jon heard the grumblings from the men, that they'd fought in the south far enough, it was time to return home, especially with winter coming, to tend to their hearths and harvests.

"Will there be direwolves?

The boy had taken to trailing him on the march back, seeing as Jon was one of the few in the northern camp who didn't threaten several times a day to kill him slowly and bleed him like a stuck pig.

"North of the Wall, young Prince. They seldom venture south of it."

"Not even in winter?"

Jon paused, holding his horse still as he tried remembering whether any of Old Nan's stories ever told of the creatures roaming the very woods outside of Winterfell.

"Probably not."

"Do you spar boy," he asked one day, traversing yet another barren section of the Kingsroad, Jon recognizing that they were but only two or three days away from home.

"I'm better with my spear than my sword," Trystane answered, shivering through his thin southern robes, and Jon reminded himself to find a proper wolf's pelt for the boy as soon as they arrived in Winterfell.

"Ser Rodrik would get a kick out of that," Jon said, chuckling. "I'll show you a few things myself, if I have time."

"You will?" The boy's eyes were eager, as if he'd already forgotten that he was their hostage. "I'd be no match for you, Ser Jon."

He'd given up reminding the boy that northern men rarely took such titles. "No, you won't be. But you'll be a better sparring partner than Tommen, that's for sure."

Or Kendron, Jon knew. The heir to Winterfell, less than two years younger than Jon, clearly preferred his books to the sword, and Jon wondered if Benjen had already given up on the idea of training his eldest son into becoming a feared warrior. It'd been Jon he'd taken to war, after all, not his own heir.

"Git me another glass," his uncle muttered, on what was to be likely their last night on the road, "an' one fer yerself too."

"Are you sure, uncle Benjen?"

He nodded wordlessly, and Jon went to fetch the ale. It was strange, his uncle had barely a drop of the stuff further south, when all his lords were drunk night and day alike, celebrating their grand victory over the southrons, yet the further north they rode, the more ale the man consumed.

_Makes sense,_ Jon mused, handing his uncle the glass. _I'd drink more than he, had I the Lady Cersei for a wife._

"Why didn't we go to King's Landing," Jon asked, sipping upon his ale slowly. "I'm sure they would've had many a grand feast, to celebrate the war, an' us winning it fer them."

"Hmmff," his uncle spoke into his ale, "We've bin...'way from Wint'fell t'many...nights a'ready. Any longer, and I'm cup home t-...t' new fair er'd lads...in'sted o' just one."

His one finger still raised in the air, Benjen Stark broke out in a loud bout of laughter, almost maniacally so.

"Two new fair haired lads," Jon tried to translate. Sadly, he become too good at deciphering his uncle's slurred speech on the latter half of this trip.

"Aye," he replied with a grin, a strangely bitter one, Jon thought. "I...I bit t'honerble Jaim'a' Lan'ster's come ta Winterful twice er thrice a'ready, askin' fer supplies an' men an'..."

"What do you mean?" Suddenly, it felt as if all the ale he'd drank had already drained from his blood, and something changed in Benjen's eyes too, as if alerted by his astonished tone.

"Not a word," Benjen ordered with a whisper, voice instantly strict as he held one finger to his mouth. Though Jon could smell the ale on his breath, his uncle's gaze...and his voice, seemed far more cognizant of the two of them than just mere seconds before. "D'yer understand?"

"I...I understand?"

"You understand this," Benjen shrieked through his hushed voice, grabbing Jon close to him with both hardened hands. "Tommen and 'Cella...I...I _love_ them, y'understand? They're _my_ childrin, _I'm_ th'one who raised them, who fed them, who sat with them when they're sick, _not_ Ser J..."

For a moment he thought his uncle was close to choking on his ale. Then, Benjen let out a loud burp, and normally that would've been a laughing matter between the two of them...but not tonight.

"I understand," Jon replied, feeling the weight of all of winter upon his shoulders.

* * *

**Tyrion**

She was a small woman, Tyrion thought, almost as small as the Queen's younger sister. While the ladies of Keep were far from prudes, the court of the Direwolf was, according to most who'd lived through both, a much more austere court than the ones under the Mad King and his Targaryen predecessors. King Eddard had never kept any mistresses, so far as most of them knew, and Tyrion doubted the new Queen would ever take up the habit when she became older.

_Unless the Prince Viserys is what many say him to be._

But Viserys's younger sister was a different dragon altogether. Where the Prince's eyes seemed panicked at all times, where his body seemed to sway as unsteady as the wind even when standing indoors, Daenerys Targaryen seemed the perfect picture of composure from the moment he'd laid his eyes upon her. Her thin cream colored dress, almost clear under the light of the mid-afternoon sun when they'd first met and greeted her at harbor, revealed far more than her eyes, every curve and contour of the girl's body laid bare for all the lords and ladies to bear witness to. It was almost as if she were challenging them, _I dare you to stare, I dare you to judge me, who are any of you to judge me,_ and though his thoughts were fleeting, and far from treasonous, the man they called the Imp couldn't help but wonder. He was undeniably loyal to Queen Sansa, and did not expect his loyalties to ever change, but by the Gods, this girl of seven and ten years was without a doubt the very reason seven entire kingdoms had venerated the Targaryens for almost three hundred years.

"Queen Sansa," the youngest of the dragons bent her knee before the little girl perched atop the Iron Throne. The Queen had chosen to wear a drab grey dress today, reminiscent of her northern roots, though the edges of the fabric were lined with gold and purple patterns intertwined.

"Princess Daenerys," the younger Queen answered calmly, "I understand you have come to King's Landing bearing a flag of truce. Are you here to accept the terms of the Crown, and to surrender the claim of your brother Rhaegar to the Iron Throne?" Her face remained as impassive as the Targaryen girl's, but Tyrion knew his charge well enough by now to know that Sansa Stark was most nervous when she appeared her coldest.

"I have, Your Grace." The words, so monumental in a way few in this room could even perceive, came gracefully, not grudgingly, but not easily either. Tyrion resisted the urge to clap his hands together in joy, before the girl continued. "And I have not."

Some of the gathered gasped, but others continued holding their breaths, knowing that such things as peace and surrender did not come as easy a child's dreams.

"What do you mean," thundered Jon Arryn across from the Queen Dowager, the two of them standing by the base of the steps and the closest to the Queen herself, aside from her Queensguard. "Are you here to waste our time, girl?"

"How you spend your time is entirely up to you, Lord Hand." The girl seemed completely unfazed the harsh words and tone of Jon Arryn. "My brother does not know I am here...though I imagine he's well aware of it now." She then returned her violet eyes towards the Queen. "I come here, Your Grace, of my own accord."

He could hear varied and confused mumbling from the lords and ladies around him, before Stannis spoke first.

"Is this a trick? A ruse, to get to your brother somehow?"

"It is not," Daenerys replied contemptuously, as if Stannis Baratheon were a common cook, and not one of the most powerful and feared lords in the realm.

"Are you fleeing from Rhaegar," Tyrion ventured to ask, "do you wish to join your brother Viserys in the Eyrie, or would you ask for a place in Her Grace's court?"

"You must be Lord Tyrion," the girl replied, amusement in her violet eyes as they studied him, as if _he_ were the stranger in the Throne Room, the intruder, instead of her. "My brother Rhaegar and I remain on the best of terms...though I imagine he'll be...temporarily displeased with me upon my return, but such feelings will pass, I'm sure. And I remind you, my lords, that should anything untoward happen to me, King Rhaegar will treat it as a provocation, an act of war."

Baelish spoke. "Are we not at war right now?"

The girl shook her head. "My brother Rhaegar has decided upon _his _terms for peace. I thought I would be the best emissary to deliver such terms. I've no doubt my brother would've disagreed, so I made the decision to sail here myself. Nevertheless, the terms are his."

More murmurs and chatter, and even Arryn appeared lost for words at the audacity of this girl.

"They are," Tyrion asked, wondering, as Stannis said, whether this was some kind of strange and elaborate ruse concocted by Rhaegar and his Spider. Or was this all some childish joke or prank on the girl's part?

"King Rhaegar will forfeit his claim to the Iron Throne," Daenerys began, "but only when my brother marries the Queen and assumes the title of King Consort. Until then, King Rhaegar retains all his current titles, though he will wait and not make war upon the Seven Kingdoms, unless he suspects ill intentions or bad faith on the part of the Queen and her councilors."

"What about Dorne," the man they called Littlefinger asked presciently, "or the Iron Islands?"

"I assume ravens will have already been sent to Sunspear and Pyke, informing them of the King's decision. I would not expect any changes from King Balon, my brother promised the Iron Islands their independence in exchange for their support, and Rhaegar Targaryen is not one to renege on his promises. But no such promises were offered to Dorne, and while neither Rhaegar nor I can truly speak for House Martell, I would not expect them to continue their rebelli...their current stances, now that the support of House Targaryen has been withdrawn."

"If these be the terms," Arryn spoke, "then the Crown accepts." Nothing here had come as a surprise for them, save the messenger herself. Though Connington lived along with some mercenaries and knights, Rhaegar had lost the bulk of his fighting men, including the remaining Dornish fleet, intercepted by Lannister ships as they tried to round Fair Isle. Another surrender, even more hostages for the Crown, and Tyrion wondered if their treasuries were being torn asunder just to feed all of their prisoners from this last war.

"Your brother Rhaegar murdered my father," a wispy but firm voice interrupted them, just as smiles of triumph and relief were breaking out across the Throne Room. "I believe, Princess Daenerys, that's what you would call a..._provocation_?"

The little girl had spoken little in the capacity of the Queen since the Battle of King's Landing, nor had there been the need for her to do so. The last time she made a choice for herself, no one regretted it the more than Sansa Stark. And they'd given her few instructions for this day, except sit quietly upon the Throne, act politely, and let her councilors do all the talking. _Yet she much be itching at the seams now,_ Tyrion thought. _She'll test us, and continue to test us, as we should expect, as is the way of all children as they grow._

Her last outburst had helped end the war, and forge this peace they found themselves so tantalizingly close to. It would only be appropriate for the Queen threaten break it today, in a similarly unexpected manner, but the young dragoness did not seem to take any offense to her accusations.

"I bore no ill will for King Eddard," Daenerys replied gently, as if speaking to a younger sister of hers. "It was war, after all, but I _am_ sorry for his death, Your Grace, and I am sorry you lost a father and brother."

"It _wasn't_ war," Sansa replied, and while her words continued to challenge her, Tyrion had to admire the control in her tone, cold and steady despite the flames surely broiling in the girl's heart. "Not with Rhaegar, not with House Targaryen, not until my father died on Pyke because of the _basest_ treachery."

"I understand," Daenerys said, her voice still tender. Turning her head, she beckoned towards her handmaidens, two of whom carried forward a large and heavy chest towards the base of the Throne. Sers Cortnay and Balon immediately moved to block them, but the Queen nodded her head, giving them permission to continue, and pulling back her guards with one easy motion.

"My brother has asked Balon Greyjoy to return to your family the remains of your father and brother. I understand it's but a small gesture, that nothing will return to you their lives, their love." The girl suddenly dropped to floor, as if she was about to prostrate herself completely, though she held her head upright. "I am in your debt, Your Grace. You spared the life of my brother Viserys, when you could have taken it. House Targaryen chose war, yet House Stark replied it with mercy. For that, I will always be thankful to Your Grace."

Rising, the silver haired girl walked over to the chest, and opened it under the wary eyes of the gathered lords and Queensguard, all ready to spring into action should some vicious or deadly creature of the east emerge from within to attack their Queen. Instead, the lid revealed only three moderately sized objects, oval in shape, and slowly the eyes all in the room widened in awe, aghast as they began perceiving just what exactly the Targaryen girl had brought into the castle.

Her own eyes caught in childish fascination, Sansa Stark rose from her seat and walked tentatively down the steps, as if her legs carried her body downward against her will, her Queensguard swarming to her side along with her mother and grandfather. Yet no one stopped the Queen as she approached the gifts, and bent down to touch them with her own tiny hands.

Her breath caught as she ran her fingers over the scaly objects, and the Queen looked up at the older woman in wonder.

"They're dragon's eggs?"

Daenerys nodded, and Tyrion thought the girl's eyes were suddenly close to tears.

"Ancient ones," Daenerys replied, "they've turned to stone, yet...they're the last of its kind, the last known in the world." Her voice barely approached a whisper as she spoke, as if their words were to be reserved as a secret between Princess and Queen. "The Magister gave it to me as a gift, for my sixteenth name day. Now they're yours, Your Grace...the last of the dragons."

The little Queen turned her eyes down at the priceless artifacts, then back at Daenerys, then back and forth several times before settling on the Targaryen princess. No words were exchanged between the two in that moment, but Tyrion thought that there was a look of..._something_...reflected in the eyes and demeanors of both girls. Sadness? Loss, melancholy?

_Understanding?_

"I thank you, Princess Daenerys," Sansa finally replied in a tone that seemed almost warm.

"It's the least I can do," the princess said in return. "May this gift bring about a new peace between our families, which will soon be one."

"Prince Viserys," the Queen suddenly remembered. "I'm sorry, would you like to visit him? We didn't know you were the one coming, not until two days before, but I'm sure my Lord Hand can provide an honor guard to accompany you to the Eyrie, you will be safe, I _promise_ you."

"Your offer is generous," Daenerys replied demurely, her small feet backing away a step and a half from the Queen. "But I must return to my brother Rhaegar across the Narrow Sea, he worries much for me, and I'm afraid he may suspect foul intentions, where there are none, should I stay away too long."

"I understand," the Queen said. Approaching the young Princess, she reached out her arms, and the two girls clasped their hands together. "I wish you a safe journey, Princess Daenerys, and good fortune."

Letting out a heavy sigh of relief, Tyrion watched the girl's servants follow their Princess out of the Throne Room, her presence there already that of a ghost's, and wondered if it had been all a dream.

* * *

**Sansa**

Samtha was dead. She'd cried, but not as much as she would've, Sansa thought, before the whole war business began. It was sad, but she'd known much greater sadness, and had so much more weighing upon her heart now, since the coronation and the war. And her friend, her sweet handmaiden who adored her and treated her nicer than even Jeyne or Margaery, except her uncle had declared for Rhaegar, so they had to remove Samtha from court and send her to Storm's End as punishments for sins she'd never herself committed. Sansa thought to visit her one day, to bring her back to court once she had reached her majority, and more time had passed after Rhaegar's Rebellion, but the Gods insisted upon cruelty. The rainy climes of the Stormlands never agreed with Samtha, who'd become sickly, they said, before she even reached the castle. The poor girl never recovered, Renly had written her, coughing up blood nearly every day. By the end, they said her body was emaciated, and death when it came was more an act of mercy than punishment for the poor girl.

Death was never ending, once it came into her life. The war had killed Samtha, like it'd killed so many. Her treasonous uncle, killed at the Battle at the Bite's Edge, had in essence murdered his own niece by his actions, dragging her to join him in death. They at least waited until after the audience with the Targaryen girl to tell her the sad news, and Sansa was thankful that she did not make a fool out of herself once again in front of the entire country.

"I'm sorry," she heard Arya say softly, entering her chambers. "She was my favorite, out of all your ladies."

"The war's over," Sansa whispered, forcing a cough in her throat so as to keep herself from sobbing. "Praise the Seven, may Samtha be the last to die so unfairly."

"Everyone dies unfairly, all the time. It's the way of the world."

"I know," she replied, eyes wandering to the gift the Targaryen girl had given her. "Maybe I can change that, as Queen. What else use is there to my crown, anyway?"

"You will. You'll be a great Queen."

At first she had to give her sister a second look, expecting her words to have been uttered in jest, a typical smirk upon her face. But there was none, Arya was as serious and as solemn as, well, as Sansa had ever seen, since the day they found out about father and Robb.

"You're being awfully nice to me," Sansa said, not being able to help herself from grinning just a pinch. "Are you planning your own rebellion against me already?"

Her sister laughed, then walked up to Sansa and hugged her where she sat.

"You're getting easier to be nice to," Arya said, her chin resting upon her shoulder.

"What do you mean," Sansa asked suspiciously.

"You used to be much more awful," Arya said, drawing away. She shrugged. "You called me horseface all the time."

"That was Jeyne," Sansa countered.

"You said it too."

The Queen shook her head, though as she thought back, she knew she couldn't entirely deny her sister's accusations. "You must've been pulling my hair, or spilled gravy on one of my favorite dresses, or something hideous of that sort."

"And you called Shireen hideous."

"_I did not!_" But again, Sansa could not fully deny it in her mind. There'd been no shortage of times her sister and her friends had enraged her, when they were all younger. She would never call Shireen hideous today, it was unthinkable...but Sansa knew what she _could_ have said and done before, in a different lifetime, it felt like, so vastly different from how she'd had to act once they put a crown upon her head.

"To be fair," Arya added with a grin, "I did dare her to whisper to Loras Tyrell that you fart all the time in your sleep."

"It's your fault," Sansa shouted, laughing as she picked up a small pillow nearby and threw it at her sister, who dodged it easily. "Everything's _always_ your fault!"

"What'd you think of her," Arya asked, when they'd both calmed down.

"Daenerys?" Her sister nodded in affirmation. "Pretty," Sansa said thoughtfully. In truth, she barely recollected now the scene from earlier today, even the face of the dragon princess a complete blur in her mind after hearing about Samtha. "A lot more...royal than Viserys, anyway, she's more of a proper lady than he is a proper knight. And I certainly doubt she'd be a rapist, like her other brother."

"Maybe she's like Jon," Arya said thoughtfully. "Her coin landed on the right side." Slowly, her eyes turned towards the three dragon stones that now belonged to House Stark. "I can't believe she gave you those dragon eggs."

"What of it," Sansa replied, "they're just rocks. Interesting rocks, for sure, but..."

"I asked around," Arya said, her voice dreamy as she walked over towards the chest, bending down and feeling the eggs with her own hands. "These things would've cost the magister who gave it to her quite a fortune."

"Well that's what magisters do, isn't it? They have fortunes, and they spend it on silly things like dragon eggs."

Cupping both hands around one of the stones, Arya lifted the egg out of the chest, and walked it carefully over to Sansa, holding it as if it were the greatest treasure in the world.

"Don't worry," Sansa scoffed, "I doubt it'll break if you drop it."

She placed the egg upon the dressing table, and both girls stared at the object as it tilted over, settling unevenly onto its side. "To think, a few hundred years ago, and this could've been the next Meraxes, or Balerion the Dread." She turned to Sansa, an unmistakably mischievous look in her eyes. "We should try to hatch them."

"Don't be stupid, these eggs are too old, they won't hatch, or they would have done so already, hundreds of years ago." She touched the egg her one hand, feeling the edges of each perfectly curved stone scale rubbing against the tips of her fingers. These were real, Sansa knew, not just some mummer's joke from the Targaryen girl. They were too perfect not to be. "Besides, only Targaryens can hatch a dragon. Or tame them afterwards."

"Your children will be Targaryens."

"Maybe," Sansa shrugged, recalling her uncle Petyr's words. "Maybe not."

_"A lot can happen between the beginning and the end of a betrothal."_

"What are you going to do with them?"

"They're practically Targaryen sigils, I can't exactly decorate the Throne Room with them." She turned her head suspiciously towards her sister. "Do _you_ want them?"

Arya laughed, though her eyes lingered covetously on the priceless object.

"They'd be useless for me, I suppose. Though maybe I can sell them, and get myself a few Valyrian steel swords with the gold."

The picture of her tiny sister holding up a sword as large as father's seemed beyond ridiculous. Though father had indulged her with her 'dancing' master, they'd all thought it was a passing fancy for Arya. Yet she continued to train tirelessly with the Braavosi man, even after father's death, so who was Sansa to make more trouble for herself by ordering an end to her sister's lessons? Besides, they told her that Arya was actually beating squires her own age in sparring matches, and Sansa did not know whether to be proud or embarrassed of her sister.

"I'll try to get father's sword back," Sansa said, watching her sister place the egg back into its place in the dark brown chest, "once everything is completely settled. You can have it. Maybe you can use it to slit Viserys's neck, if he annoys his Queen too much."

She was joking...but was she really? Deep down in her heart, Sansa had a feeling that her sister would kill for her, if she asked, even at the risk of her own life. Rising, she walked over to the exotic looking treasure chest. Both girls looked at the stones one last time, before Sansa lowered the lid and clasped it shut.

"We'll bring them with us to Winterfell," she finally decided. "Uncle Benjen can take care of them. I'm sure there'll be thieves who'll try to steal them, maybe he can keep them in the crypts, they'll be safe there."

* * *

**Rhaegar**

"What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that I'm tired of hiding."

Rhaegar sighed knowingly. The more she grew, the more Rhaegar understood that his child sister, no longer a child now, was no gentle flower, to be placed in the background and simply admired upon by others, nothing more. And while Daenerys's growing restlessness was far from the main imperative for his need to retake the throne as soon as possible, Rhaegar knew his sister would not be satisfied in Essos forever, and that a match had to be made for her in her native lands. Not that it would be easy, he needed a good and powerful house of good repute, of course, but Rhaegar also knew that not any lord would be able to handle a woman such as Daenerys Targaryen.

"It was dangerous," Rhaegar snapped. "They could've taken you, killed you even..."

"And lose this high ground of righteousness they stand upon now?" Daenerys scoffed. "Not the Starks, not the Arryns, not even the Tully's or Baratheons."

He looked towards Ser Lewyn, who merely shrugged, and wondered whether the knight had helped the girl make her escape. Lewyn had always had a soft spot for his sister, and if there was anyone in this palace who would help her...but then Lewyn Martell was a man of honor too, as much of a true knight as the likes of Arthur Dayne. And he, like Rhaegar, would never let Daenerys put herself in harm's way either. He had a feeling that whomever it was that let his sister slip through, he'd never find out, because what obligation did they have to him, a King on the precipice of abdication, or so they would have them believe?

"What'd you think?" There was no point in arguing further.

"Of what?"

"Of the Queen. Her court."

"Competent," Daenerys replied, after some thought. "The Imp seems interesting, as he ought to be, having tricked Viserys into losing the war. But otherwise, they're just a bunch of boring old men, older than even the two of you. They're tied by family," she continued, wandering the veranda as she spoke and thought at the same time, "obviously the Queen Dowager and Lord Hoster seem especially protective of Queen Sansa."

"The girl herself," Rhaegar questioned.

More contemplation. "I wouldn't underestimate her. She's young now, but...there's a strength in her eyes. They say she's the most southron of Ned Stark's children and yet...there's a...she doesn't seem to have the northern wildness to her, but...maybe a northern stubbornness...she will not yield easy, once she's older...not to Viserys, not to you..."

"The old men who are keeping her in power will die, once she's older," Rhaegar heard himself insisting. Something didn't seem right, in her voice, the way she observed him and took in his words, and when he looked again at Daenerys, Rhaegar felt ever the more lonelier. "You like her, don't you?"

_Viserys abandoned me. Would you abandon me too, sister?_

But Daenerys merely laughed off his suggestion. "I met her for all of two seconds. Certainly I was not disappointed..."

Footsteps echoed from the chambers, and the man they called the Spider joined them along the veranda, looking more satisfied and, dare he say, happy, than Rhaegar had seen in some time. Daenerys looked briefly startled by the man too, before regaining the impassive look in her face. She then turned to Rhaegar again.

"I know you'll continue your plans, you and Lord Varys. And you _are_ my King, I will be loyal to you always. But..."

"But what," Rhaegar responded more harshly than he meant to. "You want me to give up, surrender, be done with it all, let your fool brother sit in that throne with this wolf girl you so admire now?"

_The Dragon must have three heads._

_Can I trust her?_

She looked to Varys first, a knowing glance exchanged between eunuch and princess, before Daenerys replied back to Rhaegar. "Do what you have to do, brother. I have no say in such things, but...I do ask you...whatever _has_ to happen, _will_ happen. But, when it comes to the girl...and our brother...to consider for them compassion, if you can, if it's at all possible."

He grunted, suddenly eager for his sister to leave, so soon after fretting over her from the day she went missing to the day she sailed back to Pentos. "Very well."

Recognizing his mood, the change in his demeanor, she curtsied to him first, then Varys, before departing.

"Bittersweet, isn't it," the Spider finally muttered, after the girl had disappeared down the long corridors. "They grow older...yet we grow even older still."

"You have news?" Suddenly he was eager to be rid of the Spider too, and even Ser Lewyn, solitude being the sweetest drink Rhaegar could imagine at this moment.

Lord Varys smiled, and withdrew from his robes a small, worn booklet. "The High Septon's diary."

Rhaegar's eyes widened, and he took it eagerly from the eunuch, careful not to displace the page Varys had marked out with one finger as he handed it to his King.

"It's true then," he muttered in astonishment, his eyes greedily devouring the vital page in question.

"The Citadel is not the easiest place to extract such...artifacts," Varys said as he read, "but nothing is entirely impossible, given the will and the resources."

It was true, and the truth was the truth, it had always been. But the truth did not free him, because Rhaegar had _always _known the truth, yet it'd never mattered, had never helped him before or since, and so quickly after his brief bout of joy, he felt his mind slipping back into despondency.

"They'll never believe it," he grumbled, shoulders slumping, his thin body sinking back into his wheelchair. "They never believed me before, they'll just claim it's a fake, another lie..."

To his chagrin, Varys did little to comfort him. "You're right," the Spider said, agreeing, "they won't believe the truth...for now. Men believe what they _want_ to believe, Your Grace. They don't want to believe the truth today...but one day, they will."

"How? Why?"

"Our friend in King's Landing remains," Varys said, taking back the small booklet and returning it to its hiding spot deep inside his labyrinthian robes. "He'll continue to work with us. And we have something on our side, far more dependable than such a flip of the coin, as is the vagaries of war."

"What's that," Rhaegar asked, eyes never leaving the spot where the Spider had rehidden the diary.

"The hearts of girls and men."

* * *

**Petyr**

"A raven, Lord Baelish, from the Eyrie."

Petyr opened the scroll, noting its seal, and the signature of Lyn Corbray, castellan of the castle sitting at the heart of the Vale, and one of his own men, bought and _very_ well paid for. It seemed that the young Prince Viserys had taken well to his surroundings already, bedding several of the servant girls and even a granddaughter of Lady Waynwood, at least one of them rather forcibly.

"So soon," Petyr muttered to himself, "so impatient, the young..."

Taking out his quill, he wrote his instructions to the man, to keep quiet, so that word of this would never leave the Eyrie. And moon tea, copious helpings of it, especially for the serving girl whom Ser Lyn speculated was already with child, though he figured that Corbray had enough sense to have that taken care of already.

_Be rid of any of the girls if you have to_, he wrote with a finishing flourish, _by any way you deem respectable._

With one last look at the letter he'd received, he flicked the thin piece of parchment into the fire and watched it burn.

* * *

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**Notes and responses:** I imagine there's some truth to what Petyr's saying. After all, Tyrion did admit in the last council meeting that he'd not been previously aware of the "incident" with Arianne. Yet, I'd probably guess that LF isn't telling Sansa the whole truth. And if both Arianne and Doran seem like they're acting OOC...well, I'd imagine there'd be a reason for that perception, and perception may not always match reality.

As for why not wed Jon and Sansa...had Robert taken the throne, they could've at least claimed some legitimacy for his reign through his Targaryen blood. Because they crowned Ned instead of Robert...or Stannis, the_** entire political foundation** _of House Stark, and the _**entirety** _of their political legitimacy, their mythos, rests on the complete illegitimacy of House Targaryen, on the story, the fable, the fact that they'd forfeited completely their right to rule. If men like Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully had their way, Ned wouldn't have ever told anyone the truth of Jon's parentage, even without Robert in the background...but it'd been too late by then for them to put that genie in the bottle.

So now, for them to have tried to wed Sansa to Jon would be acknowledging some legitimacy to House Targaryens claims, and undermining the legitimacy of House Stark which they'd been working so hard to build over the intervening years. That's why, had Sansa not acted herself, they never would have suggested a marriage to Viserys either (right now they're just going along with it, especially Jon, because breaking the betrothal now would be a huge loss of face and honor).


	11. Interlude: Ice

**Lewyn**

The older she grew, the more he avoided her, because Lewyn knew what she wanted, Daenerys Targaryen always made sure she got. Why him now, an old man and failed knight, Lewyn could not guess upon. The Princess deserved someone far better than an aged exile, and as he was apt to do these days, Lewyn imagined a world where the rebellion never happened, where Lyanna Stark had never been born, and Rhaegar's focus and determination remained strong and undistracted in those vital first weeks immediately after Harrenhal. Once Rhaegar ascended to the throne, the King's sister would have been wooed by every knight and lord and boy in the Seven Kingdoms, deserving or not, and with any luck, she could've married someone she genuinely loved, the way his nephew Doran found his wife travelling the Free Cities. Perhaps a gallant young boy like Robb Stark, to cement the crown's ties with the north in that magical world?

Except in such a fantasy, the boy Robb Stark, a decent boy, they said, who'd been murdered because of their actions, their war, would've never lived in the first place. Eddard Stark may well have settled even further in the south, in Starfall rather than the Red Keep, and Catelyn Tully would've wed Brandon Stark and lived as the Lady of Winterfell, rather than a Queen first, then Queen Dowager after. And where children like Robb and Sansa and Arya Stark would've never been born, Elia and _her_ children would be alive in their place...as would his nephew Oberyn. Oberyn's blood was on his hands, Lewyn had come to accept, a direct consequence of his trip to the Stepstones and the conversation he had with Doran.

"What are you thinking about," a soft voice asked next to him. He failed at avoiding her, just like he failed at everything else. Or perhaps, he wanted her to seek him out, or why else would he sit upon his favorite rock overlooking the waters of the Narrow Sea, pretending to seek solitude?

"Home," he whispered instantly.

"I saw it," she whispered back at him. "Home. The castles of my family, the throne that Aegon built. And a stranger sitting upon it."

Obviously he never would have allowed the girl to escape from the city, had she been foolish enough to inform him of her plans beforehand. But part of him wished he could have gone with her, and seen her expressions, her unconcealed emotions the moment her eyes first surveyed the continent of her ancestors, a continent she'd never set foot upon before then.

"Does that bother you?"

It took her some time to answer.

"It feels wrong," Daenerys said, looking at him inquisitively, "but there's many things wrong with this world, isn't there? The Starks are wrong to sit on the Iron Throne...yet my father was wrong in burning them. And Rhaegar was wrong for loving a woman who wasn't his wife."

Lewyn grunted, because there was nothing she said that he could find himself disagreeing with.

"You want this peace, don't you?"

"This false peace?" He did not answer her. "Rhaegar is a good man, and a great king," she continued. "Viserys would not be a good king, by himself, or as a consort to Sansa Stark."

"But...," Lewyn pressed, sensing that the girl was holding something back, whether for his sake or her own, he could not tell.

"But is a bad king worse than a bad war?"

"Bad kings create worse wars."

"Like my father." Lewyn could not deny that, and Daenerys looked away. "They say King Eddard was a good king, even here in Pentos. Yet he committed the basest of treasons, he usurped and took what was not his to take. But Eddard Stark is dead. His children, Sansa, Bran, Arya...even Robb Stark...they never committed treason, did they? They weren't even born, when Tywin Lannister murdered Aegon and Rhaenys."

"They didn't commit treason then," Lewyn replied. "They do now, by sitting on that throne before your very eyes, Sansa Stark is committing treason."

_An innocent girl of twelve or thirteen,_ Lewyn thought to himself. _Would you take her head yourself for it, given the chance, given the order? What did you do, when you stood beside Aerys? What more could you be capable of, if Rhaegar was more like his father, and not the man he is? Are you no better, when it comes down to it, than the likes of Tywin Lannister or Gregor Clegane?_

"Do you expect her to bend the knee after her father died, then ride back to Winterfell?"

"No," Lewyn said, amused that he was finding himself outargued by a child. But that was incorrect, wasn't it? It was his position, his white cloak, not his mind, that was being out debated by Daenerys Targaryen.

"I'm no longer a maiden," she suddenly volunteered.

"Who?" It bothered him, the speed in which he spun to ask the question. If Lewyn Martell were the man he should have been, such a statement would have meant nothing to him. Yet the words struck him deeply, and Lewyn wondered whether what he felt was similar to the feelings a protective father would have towards his child, or something else entirely.

"It doesn't matter," she replied dismissively. Without warning, she placed both her hands against his head, and he felt his body frozen in agony as she moved her head, her lips, in his direction. To his relief, she only planted a light kiss upon his forehead, and Lewyn thought he could breathe again.

"I will always...care for you," she said, still holding him inside her hands, "but I won't wait for you forever, Ser Lewyn."

"You're thinking of running away again, aren't you?" Slowly, he brushed one of her hands away from the side of his head, and she removed the other. "I don't know how you did it last time, but I..."

"Rhaegar will allow it."

"He will?" At first, he thought she was lying, but Lewyn knew full well that Daenerys Targaryen, whatever person she was, whatever woman she would grow to be, was not a liar.

"He said he will allow you to accompany me, wherever I go. To protect me," she added. "But that he won't order you to come with me."

"What if I say no?"

She looked at him sadly, as if he'd already made his decision irrefutably. "Some of the Unsullied who survived with Connington will sail with me. Rhaegar offered me Connington too, but...," Daenerys shook her head dismissively.

He knew what she wanted to do, the girl had vented to him her dreams practically her entire life. To sail the seas, to visit all the Free Cities she hadn't yet seen, to ride with the Dothraki in the Great Grass Sea, see the tall pyramids of Slaver's Bay, stand below the walls of Qarth. Now, with at least the semblance of peace declared between her brother and the Iron Throne, Lewyn wouldn't have been surprised if the girl held even the intention to visit the very Wall of the North herself.

And Rhaegar was giving Lewyn permission to free himself from his vows, were Daenerys was telling him the truth. Granted, he'd still be serving the royal family, protecting one of its own...but Lewyn wasn't going to fool himself that it was the same thing, travelling the world with a beautiful Princess. East, west, south...to Dorne, even? To see his family, or what remained of it...little Arianne and Quentyn, to walk amidst the Water Gardens again?

"I can't," he heard himself saying. "My place is with the King."

It was the truth, even if it broke her heart, even if it broke both their hearts. Yet, this fantasy that he would find happiness or enlightenment travelling with the Princess, that he was anything _but_ the cloak he'd worn since he'd been little older than she, was a lie. Stripped of his cloak, and his vows...the King he'd stood beside every day since that fateful day on the Trident, where he'd dishonored both Rhaegar and Robert by his actions, Lewyn Martell knew he was nothing.

And he tried to feel nothing in his heart as he watched Daenerys Targaryen walk away from him without so much as another word.

* * *

**Arya**

"You're the Queen now, you have to at least pretend to like this place."

"I don't _dislike_ it," Sansa insisted, as they walked through the courtyard of Winterfell, a smaller one compared to the many in the Keep, but cozier in a way, and more comfortable, Arya thought. "I wouldn't want to come here during Winter though."

It didn't escape either girls' notice how they all stared at them unabashedly, from the servants to the guards to Lady Cersei's children alike. While their father was the King, he'd also grown up in this castle, and he was no stranger to many of older men and women who remembered a younger Ned Stark before he'd gone to live with Jon Arryn and Robert in the Vale. Father always treated it like home, whenever he returned, ambling through the halls and talking to everyone in the castle like it was his own. Arya knew she and Sansa were strangers here comparatively speaking...especially Sansa. Robb always had Jon, so had Arya, Bran was good friends with Tommen, she even watched Rickon running around happily with Rykka this trip, but Sansa...

Kendron was older than her, and Mycella too young, though age made little difference, considering that Arya considered Jon amongst the best of her friends, even though he was six years older than she. She heard the whispers even before they named her Queen, that Sansa thought herself too perfect, too fancy, too highborn, for their northern cousins. Arya believed that once too, though she'd come to realize that it wasn't pride that kept Sansa from embracing their northern kin, but because she felt too...different. She'd been the queen of her little roost of hens even before they put a crown on her head, but here in Winterfell...it seemed as if Sansa knew she was _supposed_ to be the blood of the First Men, she was _supposed_ to feel at home in the North, and the fact that she didn't made her feel...scared? Maybe even ashamed, to better make friends?

They'd sit in a warm room by the fire, because they always needed a fire, even on nights during the summer, the last time they'd come here all together with father and Robb, their family complete. The younger children had gone to sleep, Kendron was hiding somewhere because he was always hiding, so it had just been her and Robb and Jon and Sansa. The two older boys traded jokes and insults, Robb had snuck somehow a pitcher of ale that he'd shared with Jon, while Arya sat in between them, daring herself to utter a dirty word or two in front of the older boys. Behind them all sat Sansa, watching them contently while she knitted herself some pretty dress or another. But Arya had caught the ever present smile on her sister's face whilst she sewed, even when they weren't throwing out dirty jokes, and knew in her heart that Sansa was just as happy as she was.

"You should go north with grandpapa and Lord Tyrion," Sansa encouraged. "I know you've always wanted to see the Wall."

"Trying to get rid of me already," Arya teased.

"It would make for a quieter trip back to King's Landing."

"They'd never let me go," Arya said wistfully. How many years would it be before they'd let her do her own thing, she wondered? She was five away from her majority. Hopefully they'd give her a few years to herself, before they'd have her marry some dumb lord whose skill with the sword wasn't even as good as hers.

_Sansa would be Queen, really the Queen by then. Maybe she won't make me marry, if I tell her I don't want to. Not until I found someone for me, be he a lord or a butcher's son._

"I could order them to let you go," Sansa insisted next to her.

"Don't lie to me," Arya nearly spat on the ground, "I know how it works. You can't even go to the chamberpot without your Council giving you permission first."

"Well," Sansa huffed, pretending to be mad at her, "I suppose I shouldn't even _try_ to do anything nice for you."

Ahead of them, by the armory, Arya spied a familiar wave of dark hair, and was about to run and greet her cousin before she felt Sansa's hands tugging her back.

"What?"

"We should go see where mother is," Sansa muttered nervously.

"You don't want to see Jon," Arya asked, confused, as her sister looked away. Arya definitely wanted to. He'd fought in the battle at the Bite, they'd said, and Arya needed to know what it was like to kill a man, how many men he killed, did anyone hurt him, or come close to hurting him...

"Arya! San...Your Grace!"

It was too late for her sister, who frowned unhappily as she walked along with Arya in Jon's direction.

"He makes me think about Robb," she heard Sansa whisper to her, before they got too close to him. It made sense, it was impossible for Arya to see Jon too, and not think about all the happy times they'd shared together, with both older boys, but...

Jon wasn't just _Jon_ now to Sansa anymore, was he? He was also Rhaegar's son, the son of their enemy, who'd conspired to kill their father and Robb. Obviously Jon had nothing to do with it, Sansa had to know that their cousin would have mourned Robb just as much as they...but...while Jon was just a cousin to Arya, he was a cousin, _and_ a threat to her Throne too, wasn't he, now that Sansa was Queen.

Arya hoped that wasn't the case, that her sister wouldn't be so dumb as to mistrust Jon because of that, because that's exactly what their enemies would want, Starks mistrusting each other. But then, Sansa had been acting very oddly recently, when it came to Robb. There was a lingering sadness, obviously, same as when they talked of father, but with Robb, Arya sensed something more than just melancholy in her sister's eyes. She seemed almost...skittish? Nervous, anxious, whenever his name was brought up?

Such dark thoughts were forgotten as she jumped into her cousin's arms, feeling his strong hands wrapping around her back, hugging her tightly inside his embrace. Then he hugged her sister, and everything seemed normal, so maybe all her worries were useless, that there was nothing wrong with Sansa's feelings towards Jon, except what she'd just told her.

"I've got presents made for you." Jon gestured for the smith, standing nearby. "First, for Your Grace..."

"Call her Sansa," Arya interrupted, "or it'll get to her head."

"Sansa's fine," her sister agreed with a smile, as Jon handed her several large, dark objects of what looked to be armor.

"I heard you fought in the Battle of King's Landing yourself."

"I did not," Sansa denied, as if she still believed such things to be improper for a lady. "I stood on the walls far from the battle and watched."

Jon laughed, and placed his finger over his lips. "Don't tell anyone here then, all the Northern lords are absolutely eating up the idea of their fierce Stark Queen raising her sword and leading her men in battle against the wicked Targaryens."

"I guess I won't disappoint them then," Sansa said, holding the armor and running her fingers carefully along its surface. "Is this leather?"

"Aye," Jon nodded. "I pray you won't have to fight in anymore wars. But with...Rhaegar still out there...well, Winter is coming, isn't it? Even far in the south."

"Thank you, Jon."

"It's a bit big for you, sister," Arya commented, watching Sansa try and fit the breastplate in front of her body. She would've laughed at her, watching her sister stumbling clumsily back into the Maegor's Holdfast after the battle, except the battle had been a serious occasion, and she _had_ been truly scared, though Arya would never admit that to anyone, not even mother, or Shireen.

"You'll grow," Jon said with a chuckle, before bending down into a crouch and turning towards her. "And for you, little one..."

"Hey," Arya protested, "I won't always be this little."

"Well," Jon replied, reaching around his back to draw out a thin object, "when you do grow..._if_ you do grow, I'll need to get you a bigger sword than this one."

Arya's eyes widened as they fell upon the thin blade being presented to her by her cousin. Grabbing the small hilt, feeling it fit perfectly within the palm of her hands, she backed away from both Jon and Sansa, and swung it carefully several times through the air. The tiny weapon felt so light in her hands, flying and whirling quicker than she'd first anticipated. Pointing the tip of the sword at her own eye, she saw to her satisfaction that it was indeed sharp, deadly sharp. It was far different than any practice sword she'd ever held, even Syrio's sword, which he'd let her hold once, but Arya was confident her dancing master would be delighted with this new weapon, which she'd known from the moment she took it in her hands, was _truly_ hers, and would be, forever.

"...say all the best swords have names," she heard Jon tell her.

Looking devilishly at Sansa, recalling all the times her sister bored to her death, sitting and sewing in her room, then back at her own needle like blade, Arya knew exactly what she would name it.

* * *

**Sansa**

He looked older than she'd imagined. They'd spoken about Dornish boy her uncle Benjen had taken captive in battle, and it was easy for her to have thought him to be a child, and to forget that she herself was still one too. In reality, she judged Trystane to be close to her own age, a bit shorter, and a bit more timid and shy than she would imagine an enemy of hers to be. But then he was a child, Sansa reminded herself, that just as she'd never had any say in having to sit on the Iron Throne, Trystane Martell was probably the last reason Dorne chose to go to rebel against her.

"You're Prince Trystane," she said, walking up to him as he ate by himself in the corner of the meal hall. On the far side sat Lady Cersei and several of her children, whom she wanted to avoid this morning, sneaking into the room from an opposite corner with Ser Balon by her side. The Lady of Winterfell had never been anything but nice to her, but there always seemed to be something hidden behind her smiles, as if she were holding back a bitter pill in her mouth even as she tried suggesting not so subtly that Sansa ought to take her older daughter into her service as one of her ladies in waiting. Which Sansa was not averse to once the girl was older, because she did like Myrcella though, like everything else, she figured she'd need to get her Council's permission first.

"I...yes...Your Grace, I guess that's me."

She could not begrudge him the awkward response, it had been an odd way to initiate a conversation with a stranger, but though Sansa had thought for a long time about talking to the boy, and knew exactly what she wanted to ask him, after a year on the throne she was becoming far more accustomed to been addressed to, than the opposite.

"I hope my uncle is treating you well." They told her he was behaving, well, like a good hostage, but still Sansa wanted to tread carefully, and not go out of her way of making an enemy out of the boy. From across the room, Myrcella, Tommen, and Rykka watched her curiously, wondering why the Queen was bothering wasting her time with a traitor. Lady Cersei smiled, a perfunctory one, Sansa could tell, before turning her attentions back to Kendron, the heir to Winterfell having few interests, they told her, aside from sitting beside his mother and reading his books, usually at the same time.

"He does," Trystane replied nervously, looking around to see just who was watching them, probably guessing this was some sort of royal trap. Sansa tried smiling, to assure him that her intentions were not ill. "The food here is...different," he said, poking his fork at a gray slab of meat, "and the winds at night...but, they feed me well, I guess, but..."

_He has kind eyes,_ Sansa thought. _Sad ones too. _The boy was cognizant enough to avoid offending the niece of his hosts, but his dark eyes couldn't hide the truth completely.

"It's not home, is it?"

"It's..., it's different from Sunspear, Your Grace. Or the Water Gardens."

"This might have been home for me," Sansa said, looking around at the drab stone walls surrounding them, where unlike many of the well lit chambers of the Red Keep, it seemed the only thing lighting the room were the nearby torches, even on a sunny morning. "We're the first Starks to have a home outside of Winterfell...you don't have to lie to me, it's a pretty boring castle."

Again she smiled, to show him she was being friendly, and felt relieved seeing Trystane feeling comfortable enough to laugh alongside her.

"Have you ever been to King's Landing," she continued asking, "or the Red Keep?"

The Dornish boy shook his head. "I heard it's a huge castle, taller than even the Great Sept of Baelor!"

"It is," Sansa said, though it didn't feel that large to her, not when she knew where most of the hallways and corridor led. Not as well as Arya, probably, but there were few wings of the castle she called home that she hadn't visited at least once, Sansa figured. "My favorite places are the gardens, they have flowers of all colors, brought over from all the seven kingdoms. There was this little bench I would sit, when I was a child, smell the sweet lavender scents and listen to the waves crashing below."

She missed it already.

"You'd love the Water Gardens," Trystane suddenly spurted out, forgetting for the first time that he was a traitor speaking to the Queen whom he'd betrayed. "It's not big like the Red Keep...and our gardens probably aren't as beautiful as yours, but...they're pretty nice too. There's fountains in every corner, you can hear them splashing wherever you walk, and the sound of the birds chirping..."

He trailed off, and Sansa regretted making him sadder, reminding him about a home he may never see again.

"I'd like to see it one day," she said absentmindedly, realizing only after she said them the absurdity to her statement. Even though Dorne had made their peace and sent over to them all the gold her Small Council had demanded, no one was under the illusion that Prince Doran, the father of the boy before her, was happy with the peace, and would not take the first opportunity he could to get his revenge on losing the war. Remembering why she came here, Sansa tried as subtly as she could to bring up the subject. "Did my brother Robb like the Water Gardens, or Sunspear?"

Trystane's eyebrows winced into a frown, and Sansa could not tell whether he was remembering, or trying to think of a convincing lie to tell her.

"He wasn't someone who cared that much about flowers or gardens, that's for sure."

"Sounds like Robb," Sansa recalled with a smile.

"He'd go out riding a lot. At first my brother Quentyn would join him, but I don't think he could keep up with your brother, so a lot of times he'd leave in the morning and take rides by the shoreline by himself. He liked watching my uncle Oberyn practice with his spear too. And Areo's longaxe...that's my father's captain, he kept asking him to teach him how to fight with one."

"If only he'd learned that before Pyke," she heard herself muttering, shutting her mouth before she could blurt out any more _undiplomatic_ mistakes.

_Did it happen so quickly,_ Sansa wondered, though she knew better than to speak it,_ that he'd be sparring with the likes Oberyn Martell one day, then getting betrayed and murdered by the same family less than one year after?_

It was too late, her true feelings towards his family had already come out.

"I'm sorry," Trystane whispered, his eyes downcast.

"It wasn't your fault," she tried assuring him, "you weren't the one who made the decisions."

"It wasn't uncle Oberyn's decision either, I don't think he wanted to join the rebellion at all."

This she did not know. Did Petyr know this, or her Council? Did it matter anyway? The war was over, and the man in question dead, killed in her name.

"Was it because of your sister, Arianne?"

Recognition dawned in his eyes, she thought.

_This is why you sought me out_, he was probably thinking. _This is why you bothered with me, because I'm nothing except another hostage for you, except I know something you don't._

"I don't think Arianne loved Robb like," he finally stammered, after some time presumably deciding whether or not he was going to confide in her, "like my uncle Oberyn loved Ellaria, his paramour. But she wanted badly to be his Queen."

Robb had never mentioned the Dornish Princess to her, or her brothers and sisters, she'd gathered as much. But it appeared now that they hadn't been complete strangers, at the very least.

"Was he in love with her?"

It was a prettier alternative to asking whether her brother was a bad person, a scoundrel. Again, Trystane took his time in responding, taking a bite of steamed carrots and chewing carefully as he thought through his answer.

"If he was...I didn't know about it. I've seen courting...he didn't act like someone who was courting my sister, walking her through the gardens, singing songs for her, anything like that. They talked, I don't think he was ever rude to her, but...I don't think he wanted Arianne to be his Queen."

It made sense, Sansa thought. Margaery was his true love, she remembered the way they looked at each other, holding hands whenever they could, exchanging secret glances across from across the table during suppers. How could her brother fake something as..._real_, as that? Could Sansa allow herself to hope, that somehow Petyr had been wrong?

"I'm sorry I don't know more," he continued. "They don't tell me anything, really. Not father, not Arianne."

"Is it true that your brother challenged Robb to a duel?" She felt guilty, continuously pressing the poor boy about things he was visibly discomforted by, but Sansa felt like she _had_ to know. And why should she feel guilty? After all, wasn't he a traitor, didn't he owe the truth, however much of the truth he knew at least, to his Queen? Much to her surprise, Trystane burst out laughing.

"Quentyn wouldn't last a minute against Prince Robb in a duel. They did argue though, but that was it."

"Because Robb...dishonored your sister?"

Trystane nodded, and Sansa felt crestfallen again. "Father sent him away, that same day he shouted at Quentyn, and he sent Arianne to the Sunspear. They said...I guess Robb did break her heart. I never saw her after that, then I sailed with uncle Oberyn to the Iron Islands...and I haven't seen her since. I hope she's come back to the Water Gardens though, that was always her favorite place."

The boy was no dimwit, and Sansa had a feeling that, just as she was afraid to give voice to her thoughts, that her brother had been an unworthy cad and scoundrel who'd disgraced his family name, Trystane must have been equally puzzled about how his sister could have suffered a broken heart over a man she did not seem to love, and why he had to join a rebellion against her family for it, and why did his uncle have to die for it?

_And why would Robb try and seduce Arianne, if he didn't care for her, and she was the one who wanted to be his Queen?_ Though they'd fallen in love at Storm's End, Robb had always...well, she'd noticed even before then that he'd act differently, he'd act less like...Robb, whenever the Rose of Highgarden visited King's Landing.

"Thank you, Prince Trystane," she said, forcing a smile upon her lips, "I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"It's an honor to speak to you, Your Grace," he said, rising along with her, and bowing properly. "I'm sorry about the...well, treason and war and all. I'd like to try and make it up to you...," he paused, looking away again, past Lady Cersei and her children. "Your cousin Jon is really good with his sword, and he's been teaching me. Maybe when I can be as good as him, or almost, I could serve you in your Queensguard."

As nervous as the boy had been earlier, Sansa noted that he seemed to gain some confidence once he started speaking about Jon and their practicing.

"I would be honored," she said agreeably, before remembering. "And I'm sorry about your uncle Oberyn too," she added, thinking how odd it was to be exchanging so many continuous apologies, back and forth, with a traitor. "If it wasn't his choice to join the rebellion, then we should...I can tell my Council, and maybe they can honor him in some way."

Walking through the hallways of the castle deep in thought, she barely noticed its attendants, or Ser Balon so dutifully shadowing her. There was little truly useful she'd learned from Prince Trystane that she could tell her Council, not that her Council really mattered to her, all she cared about was Robb. Every day since her uncle Petyr had confided in her in the library she'd wanted to run to her mother and ask her what Robb did, was he a good person, the gallant and honorable prince and big brother she'd remembered? She'd foolishly hoped that one boy might know all her answers, that she could prove to all of them, using Trystane Martell, that Robb had always been true to their family, to Margaery...and she could always tell them what she'd learned today, they didn't have to know it came from uncle Petyr, there were plenty of others she could've overheard the rumors from. But Trystane seemed like a good person, and she didn't want to get him in trouble either, not when she was still so unsure about everything.

Of course she could invite, or order, Arianne Martell to court, and make her admit the truth of the matter. That would have to happen after she reached her majority, however, she doubted she could convince her Council to do such a thing, not unless she confessed to them what she really wanted to know. Even then, there would be _politics_, and stuff like that.

_Only three more years,_ she thought to herself, _but it seems so long, three years. Like it's forever._

Then, she could finally try and discover the truth about Robb. But it meant she'd actually have to rule too, and make decisions, very important ones. Wandering the hallways of Winterfell, Sansa Stark could not decide whether she wanted these three remaining years to pass slowly or quickly.

* * *

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**Notes and Responses:** I imagine Rhaegar would be in for a shock if Arya somehow could hatch and ride a dragon. As of now though, I don't either she or Sansa would have anything against Dany.


	12. Interlude: Fire

**Young Ned - Year 299**

"In the name of Sansa of House Stark, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, I sentence you to die."

One smooth swing of Beric Dondarrion's sword and the man's head left his neck, and Edric Dayne took a step back so not as to let the blood dirty his armor.

"Did you have to execute him," the boy they called Ned asked Lord Beric later that night, while they ate a meal of dry venison at camp.

"He was a deserter," Beric said, taking a swig of the wine before handing it back to his friend Thoros, the former Red Priest from Essos.

"I actually spoke to him the other day," Ned said. "I was rounding the horses at the rear, and one of them almost stepped on his heal. His name was Bonno, he's from a small village by the Bronzegate, and he missed his wife and daughter." Pausing, he observed their small band sitting beside the fire. Thoros was in another world by now, as he was every night, but the young Lord of Starfall saw that both Lady Brienne and Lord Beric, whom he squired for, were studying him intently. "He told me his daughter must've just had her seventh name-day. I think that's all he wanted to do, go and see her."

"Duty's not what you _want_ to do," Brienne lectured, turning down the small jug of wine from Thoros with a firm shake of her head, "else anyone would be able to fulfill it with ease."

"Maybe that's all he wanted," Beric agreed, "to see his daughter. Maybe he's a coward, and he's afraid of the bandits..."

"Or the ghosts," Ned interrupted, looking around nervously the dark woods, "the ghosts of Summerhall."

"Aye, maybe your friend Bonno's afraid of ghosts. Or it's all of it. But it doesn't matter what he wants, it's what the Queen demands of him, of all of us."

"We met the Queen, remember," Ned said, recalling that first horrible battle he'd seen with his own eyes, and fought with his own hands. "She doesn't seem like the kind of person who'd want people killed just for running away."

They all said he'd probably been amongst the youngest to fight in that battle, and Ned could vividly recall the way his throat closed up in horror as he shoved his sword through the back of a fellow Dornishman, just before he'd been about to slit Lord Beric's throat. How different was the next day, when he'd been rewarded for that brutal kill by getting to meet the Queen herself.

"It's the Queen's law," Beric said firmly. "She'd want it carried out, I've no doubt."

It wasn't that Edric had never seen a deserter executed before, but he'd never met one, spoken to one, before he'd been killed, until today. And it was only recently that Lord Beric had to be the one doing the executing, after Stannis named him the acting Warden of the Stormlands, while the Lord of Storm's End spent his time advising the Queen of the armies of _all_ her seven kingdoms.

"You fought at King's Landing," Lady Brienne said across the fire. "You saved Lord Beric's life. One day, Lord Edric, you'll see battle again, whether it's against bandits, or another army of Targaryen sellswords. That man Bonno may be the one to get your back, to save _your_ life. Or, he'd be the one who'd condemn your life, or Beric's or mine, by running away, because he's scared. Or even because he wants to see his daughter, it's still running away. Then who will protect his daughter, if the Targaryen sellswords win, if they kill all of us, sworn to defend Her Grace's kingdoms, and the enemy is allowed to ravage and reap all the towns and villages as they will?"

"One day," Lord Beric continued, stopping himself from polishing his sword to look Ned in the eye, "you'll be the one who'll have to lead men, and execute deserters. Maybe with Dawn in your hands."

"Maybe," Ned muttered, though he doubted it. One small part in a battle was a far cry from being able to claim the ancestral sword of his family. Killing poor men like Bonno wasn't it either, he thought. The great Arthur Dayne, his uncle, the last Sword of the Morning had been the kind of knight who'd protected men like Bonno, and his family, Ned would've liked to think, except, that wasn't exactly all true, was it? Even the great Arthur Dayne had merely stood to the side while the Mad King burned women and children alike. Had that been part of his duty as well?

"They say King Arlan the Short made camp close to here," Beric said, obviously trying to change the subject, "before he marched north into the Riverlands and claimed that kingdom for his own realm, in the same clearing where they'd build Summerhall hundreds of years after."

"That's Arlan of House Durrandon," Ned said, trying to recall from the last time Beric had told him the stories of the old Storm Kings, "First of His of Name?"

"Third," Brienne corrected. "First of his Name was King Arlan the Avenger."

"Aye," Beric agreed, "the Avenger spread the realms of House Durrandon all the way to the Blackwater, but it was his grandson, Arlan the Short, who took it to the Trident, and far beyond."

"My father believes that Arlan the Short was the greatest conqueror we'd seen in all seven kingdoms," Brienne reminisced, "until Aegon Targaryen came."

"And he did it _without_ dragons," Beric said with a smirk.

"What about the Avenger," Ned asked. "He won his share of wars too, didn't he?"

"Aye, he did," Beric said, a quick look to Thoros to confirm that the old man was now fast asleep in the dirt. "But it was easier for the first Arlan, he had less borders to defend, he could conquer mindlessly, without thinking. And he made enemies he didn't have worry about, because he died, and left them for his son and grandson to handle."

"It was his grandfather's idea to marry Arlan the Short to Marys Blackwood," Brienne continued the tale, "earning them the enmity of House Teague in the Riverlands."

"Arlan knew war was coming, so he prepared, long before had to fight."

"Was that when made war with Dorne," Ned asked, remembering his own lessons in Starfall, remembering that his ancestors had probably fought and tried to kill those of Lord Beric's. And were he not his squire, he would've probably been riding with Anders Yronwood attacking King's Landing instead, rather than defending his Queen.

Beric nodded. "King Arlan marched down the Boneway, defeated the Dornish armies first at Wyl, then by the mouth of the Rocky River. He took Yronwood, and had all of Dorne at his feet for the taking."

"But then we made him surrender?"

"He made peace willingly," Brienne corrected, "without fighting another battle. He married all but one of his sons and daughters to Dornish houses, the Martells, the Yronwoods, and Fowlers."

"Arlan the Short made war," Beric said, "for the purpose of making a peace, and gaining a new ally. With Dorne secured to the south, he could embark north, without fearing an attack by the traditional enemies of his kingdom."

"Three years before the Blackwood Rebellion broke out in the Riverlands," Brienne said, her blue eyes ringing in admiration for their subject, same as Lord Beric's, "the Stormlands and Dorne made war against the Reach, _together_. Arlan led an army who'd reached the gates of Highgarden, while the Dornish Fleet captured Oldtown harbor."

"Again, the Storm King made war, to make peace. He married his heir and last unmarried child to the daughter of Garth the Fat, but because he trusted the Gardeners less than he trusted the Martells, Arlan insisted that his new gooddaughter accompany her husband first to Storm's End, then to war."

"To keep her a hostage," Ned knew.

"Aye. Arlan had gold sent to Highgarden and Oldtown too, to keep the peace regardless. So when the war along the Trident finally broke out, Arlan could march north to fight on behalf of his wife's family, knowing that his own lands were safe from the prying eyes of his former enemies."

It seemed that war was all he'd known of the last few years, even in the peace there were bandits to apprehend, endless lands upon the marches to patrol, in case the Martells, his liege lords yet traitors to the crown, decided upon treason again. At night he dreamed of war. In the day, he helped Lord Beric make war, and now at dusk, they talked and he learned the words of war, before the circle rang anew again.

"King Arlan could've been the greatest conqueror the seven kingdoms had ever known," Brienne said, finishing the story, and his lesson, Ned realized. "His lands stretched from the Narrow Sea to the Sunset Sea. But had he not known not just when to make war, but also when to make peace, he might've taken the Riverlands all the same, but lost his own home after the war."

"When to make peace," Ned recited, etching these stories into his mind and memory. Casting a stare at Brienne, then Beric, he had his own question. "What about when to show mercy?"

Beric winked knowingly, acknowledging that his young charge had managed to turn the tables on them. "They may seem similar," the Lord of Blackhaven began, "mercy and peace. But there is a difference."

"What is it?" Ned saw Brienne turn her head too, eager to hear what his uncle by marriage had to say.

"Mercy is mercy," Beric said thoughtfully. "It flows pure from the goodness in the hearts of men...and women, nothing more, and there's no purpose to it, just a vague, ambling thought, the wisp of an idea. Peace can be merciful, and peace can be purposeful. But peace without purpose is no mercy, because it leaves you unprepared for the next war. And the next war will always come."

Young Ned forgot that night whether he dreamed of war and conquering, of men losing their heads and daughters losing their fathers, or of peace and mercy, and the differences between the two ideas. He did remember waking that morning, however, to the smell of smoke, and the sound of ominous and thunderous cracks in the distance.

"What's going on," Ned asked, running out of his tent and barely catching in time his armor, thrown haphazardly to him by Lord Beric.

"Fire," he cried, "coming from the ruins of Summerhall!"

"What should we do?"

"Run," Beric replied, in a barely concealed panic. "Ride, as far away from here as you can!"

* * *

**Daenerys**

"I am the true blood of the Dragon. The Throne is mine, by right, by force, by the will of all the Gods. Accursed be those who oppose me, whether it be the Usurper himself, or all those who would fight for him, and bleed for him, and die for him, for naught but false causes and vile plunder! So shall I not rest my waking eye, so be it with fire, or with blood, my ire immortal, let war ravage the land, let my kingdoms burn to ash, yet so I will breathe, and loathe, until the Gods consume my enemies, under the weight of their sins, until blades of lightning split their hearts asunder!"

The crowd burst into rapturous applause, and Daenerys bowed shyly, fighting the urge to linger further along the stage, before running behind the curtains. It was only the end of the second act of Phario Forel's play, _The Realm's Delight_, but to Daenerys, who played the title role, this was her fondest moment every night.

"Good job," complimented the Lady Crane to her, as all the mummers gathered for the short intermission before the second half of the play began.

"Thank you," Daenerys replied, to the woman who played her erstwhile enemy, the Lady Alicent Hightower. "It's by far my favorite speech in the thing."

The older woman laughed. "That, and not the one you give before Izembaro feeds you to the dragon," she said, referring to the actor and troupe leader who played her rival claimant, Aegon the Usurper.

Daenerys raised her hands in the air indignantly. "I bloody die at the beginning of Act Four. It gets boring back here, you know, waiting and listening to you doing all your brilliant work, begging Cregan Stark to spare you, or kill you, in the same damn speech."

"Maybe one day we can switch it up," Lady Crane answered with a wink.

"Do you mean it," Daenerys asked, unable to hide her excitement. Of course they'd give her the role of her ancestor to play, they didn't even need to waste coin buying her a wig, and she'd enjoyed it at first, knowing the crowds ate it up, the oh so rare and spectacular sight of an actual Targaryen playing one of the most famous, or infamous, Targaryen Queens of all time.

She'd never acted before, but Daenerys found it surprisingly easy reciting the lines of this wonderful and terrible woman. There were times she forgot who she was, standing on that stage...daughter of the Mad King, sister of Rhaegar and Viserys, the youngest dragon alive. Instead, she felt in the deepest recesses of her heart the rage of the scorned Half-Year Queen, her sense of grievance for all who'd betrayed her, her disappointment, her rightful wrath. Only after it was all over, and she'd waited for the show's completion, then stepped out on stage with the rest of her crew, did she remember herself amidst the exhilarating din of the cheers, the applause, the love.

And they loved her, all of Braavos did. When she first started she slept in the small bunkhouses with the other mummers, but by their fourth show, they'd gathered enough acclaim to have caught the attention of the city's wealthy merchants and nobility, in addition to the fishermen wives and cobblers who typically attended their theater. A wealthy widow, who'd been married to one of the city's last Sealords, decided to take in the entire troupe into her palace in the hills overlooking the city, and sure enough it seemed just a repeat of all the years she'd spent in such palaces from Pentos to Volantis and in between, except there was _something_ for her to do in the daytime, rather than lounge endlessly in waiting.

"Look at the way they look at you," the Lady Crane whispered to her, the entire troupe gathered on stage after the play to soak in the endless applause, and Daenerys could detect a hint of jealousy in the actress's voice.

"They _love_ to hate you," she whispered back. "That's special, to have the ability to create something, someone from yourself, something so horrible that would so inflame the hearts of others..."

It was a different audience she faced here, than that court in the Red Keep, which felt a lifetime ago. And while bitter memories still remained from that day, bending her knee before a stranger, the judgments of dozens of old men and ladies who'd betrayed her family, who'd scorn her name and everything about her, even when they knew nothing about her, Daenerys could not deny that her brief hour standing before Sansa Stark's court had opened up a brand new world for her. Suddenly, her entire existence was no longer limited to just her brothers, Ser Lewyn, Connington, and all the other hanger-ons to Rhaegar's travelling court and mummery. She saw knights, and lords, and ladies, banners flying in the air with sigils she could barely keep count of...all the stories of her native country come to life, and in that moment, Daenerys knew that need her as he may, she could no longer stay with Rhaegar, as his little pet, for the Gods know how many more years.

"Come, Princess, have some wine with me?"

"I thank you for the offer," Daenerys replied demurely, after they'd returned to their patron's mansion on the hill, "but there's some lines I want to work on, in the third act, when the riots begin in King's Landing..."

It was Denbe, the young man who donned a silver wig to play her uncle Daemon. He'd been her second, after the boy watching over the boats at Magister Illyrio's palace. She hadn't let him touch her in several moons though, not since she'd found out he'd been spending many a night with the wealthy widow. And Lady Crane too once, though that affair ended many years before she'd come to Braavos.

"My good Princess..."

A soft voice startled her the moment she walked into her bedchambers, and Daenerys jumped, eyes turning towards a dark figure sitting in the corner of her room. There was a small knife by her bed drawer, and if she could reach it...

"Lord Varys?"

"It's been some time, hasn't it, child?"

"I'm no longer a child." Her eyes narrowed, knowing there was only one reason why the Spider would have come to Braavos to seek her out. Yet, she had to ask. "Why are you here?"

"A favor, actually," Varys replied, standing so that his face was revealed under the light of the small candle by the doorway, and Daenerys saw that he held in his hands a thick bundle of papers.

"What kind of favor," Daenerys asked carefully, her guard dropping once she realized she was out of danger, both from dangerous strangers, or brothers who missed her company.

_He's not here to retrieve me back to Rhaegar? I can stay? Does Rhaegar approve?_

Rather than answer, Varys handed her the loosely bound volume. She read the words on the parchment at the front. "_A Romance of Wolf and Dragon_..."

"A friend of mine, a budding young artist in Pentos, had the thought to write this tale years ago, a tragic one, really, of a dashing young prince, a husband, a father, yet destined to fall in love with another. I thought, with all the success this retelling of the Dance of Dragons has enjoyed here, this story would fall right in line, once your audiences start craving something new..."

* * *

**Tyrion**

Who knew sitting on the Small Council was so much work? Of course, things had gotten much more difficult since the death of Hoster Tully, not long after they'd returned to King's Landing from their expedition north. And it did puzzle Tyrion, the man had seemed fine the entire trip, the frigid climes of Castle Black not enough to put a dent in the old man's constitution, yet the fever burned through the old man like dragonfire less than two moons after they'd returned to the Keep. The Queen and her mother remained in mourning for some time, which while unfortunate, did not affect his work. But Jon Arryn was aging too, and with such aging, Tyrion could tell the man was slowing, in body and in mind. He'd even caught the elderly Hand dozing off during several Council meetings, though only for a second or two at a time.

"...we did have four ships return to Lannisport intact," his uncle Kevan continued reading sulkily in his corner. "They say more were captured by the Ironborn, though the possibility of recovering those ships, or the men, remain slim."

That particular war had not always been so grim. The Lannister fleets had moved slowly, first the blockade off Fair Isle, then creeping further north along the shore in the direction of Pyke. But then one stormy night, Gawen Westerling led the fleet in a sweeping action past Pyke and under the noses of the Greyjoy fleet, establishing a beachhead on the island of Harlaw. The Greyjoys, led by Balon's brother Euron, raided the coast between Banefort and the Crag in retaliation, but such actions were expected, and the pirates quickly beaten off while Lord Gawen then led the fleet westwards, taking the island of Orkmont. The plan was Old Wyk and Great Wyk next, not to actually capture the castles on the islands through lengthy sieges, but to raid the land in the similar manner of the Ironborn, while ever squeezing the Greyjoys on Pyke day by day, one dead pirate after another.

Tyrion supposed the lesson learned here was that fighting the enemy on their terms, in their field, was a bad idea. The raids had become an end to themselves, rather than a piece of a grander strategy, and given enough time and revealing to the enemy enough of their patterns, what they'd thought was another innocuous raid north of Hammerhorn was interrupted by the entire might of the Greyjoys, a complete and total devastation for the Crown, the Queen...and his own family's repute.

_"Just what is it you're expecting to achieve, getting in bed with wolves," his father had questioned him, on his visit to Castle Black._

_"Restoring our family's name," Tyrion had rebutted, regretting already turning down his brother's invitation for a ranging expedition, which now appeared a far better prospect than a day spent trailing Tywin Lannister upon the Wall._

_"You can do that by marrying, and giving your house an heir."_

_"You be surprised how difficult that is, when your family's a pariah to the crown."_

_"So it seems you've solved that problem, haven't you? What with your little trick with the Targaryens."_

_"My little trick won a war," Tyrion defended, feeling his temper rising, "a war that was far from won, need I compare it to your little trick in King's Landing."_

_He'd regretted his words instantly, and once it was said, his father sighed and turned away from him, calling in for his steward, a plump Tarly boy freshly arrived to the Wall, to bring him in his evening meal._

"The Crown needs to retaliate," Mace Tyrell proclaimed, pounding his fist upon the table. "Else we'll look like fools."

The obvious move after Hoster Tully's passing was to invite the Lord Paramount of the Reach to take his place on both the Small Council and the Regency Council. With Robb Stark dead, it was the best place in King's Landing they could offer to the most powerful family in the south, even if not everyone trusted the Tyrells, and just exactly where their loyalties lay, during Rhaegar's Rebellion. After a year on the job, Tyrion found creating a spy network out of thin air trying anyway, so they gave him Lord Hoster's position as Master of Law, moving Littlefinger in as Master of Whispers, and Mace Tyrell to fill in his place managing the Queen's coffers.

"We have enough problems to deal with already," Tyrion protested, after observing Jon Arryn's eyes wandering off into the distance again. "It's an embarrassment, to be sure, but the Kingswood fires are a more proximate problem, now that they're threatening the Reach as well."

"It is strange," the Archmaester mused, "I've never heard of so many fires breaking out this long after summer. Winter is indeed coming, we're but a few years away..."

The old man shook his head in befuddlement, and Stannis tapped his fingers impatiently against the table. "Lord Beric arrived at the capital this morning. I spoke to him, they were able to save several stores of granaries. We'll move them north of the Blackwater."

"But we lost quite a bit, didn't we," Tyrion asked, and Stannis nodded silently. "Now, new fires threaten even the storages by Ashford."

"We'll move them south," Mace said, "keep them close to Highgarden."

"Put them all on the Arbor if you have to," Stannis grumbled. "I fear it may not make a difference though. Lord Beric believes the fires aren't natural, that it's...bandits, setting them off."

This confused Mace Tyrell. "Why in all seven hells would bandits set their own forests on fire?"

"Who knows," Ser Cortnay replied. "Give them cover? Raid the villages after everyone's fled?"

"Strange indeed," Baelish added. Crouching his head closer to the table, he whispered, as if there were unwelcome intruders listening in upon their very private meeting of the Small Council. "Some say the tale's stranger. The first fire arose amidst the ruins of Summerhall. They whisper, it's a curse upon the land, set in forth by the ghosts of Targaryen kings and princes past, perhaps even on behalf of the Gods themselves..."

"Rubbish," Mace yelled from his corner, "utter nonsense!"

"Do you believe so," Littlefinger asked quizzically. "Many of these whispers come from your very lands, in the streets of Oldtown."

"Leyton Hightower," Mace asked. "He's getting up there in age, sure, but I've never known the man to speak of ghosts and curses."

Littlefinger corrected him. "I said the streets, Lord Tyrell, not the _high_ tower. There's a man...I know not the name, only that they call him the High Sparrow. He proclaims himself a higher Septon than even our man in King's Landing, yet he preaches his own..._manner_ of the Faith, condemning the High Septon here, calling the Gods to rain fire down upon his head, for his complicity in the corruption of the Crown."

"Corruption," Tyrion burst out. "The corruption of an innocent fourteen year old girl, or is it _us_ who are supposedly corrupt?"

Rather than answer directly, Littlefinger looked down upon a batch of papers he had brought to the meeting. "_'A girl sitting upon the Throne, our lords, princes, and warriors swearing fealty to a woman is an Affront to the Father Himself! A child sitting upon the Throne, who worships the false Gods of the north, whose ancestors worshiped the false Gods of the north, is an affront to all the Seven...'," _Littlefinger shrugged, "some of his preachings."

He heard his uncle Kevan sighing. "It's certainly a unique situation. A girl Queen, ruling solely upon her throne, is...would be, unprecedented, to be sure."

"She's the rightful heir," Tyrion replied back, knowing well how his uncle thought, "appointed by law..."

"Appointed by Hoster Tully and Lord Arryn, really," Petyr countered, "two men, albeit powerful men, out of millions in the Seven Kingdoms." He raised his hands in the air, as if to apologize for his heresy. "It was the right decision, our Queen is wise and just, and I am forever loyal to her...but, Lord Tyrion, you must see that now, with the war long over, there would be many in the realm who would object, wrongfully, sure, yet object all the same towards a Great Council composed of only two."

"We were at war," Jon Arryn interrupted, suddenly alert after hearing his name called out, "our King and Crown Prince dead, it was all we could do at the time!"

"A questionable choice," Stannis said, "but the choice is made, so we all have to live with it."

His uncle spoke again. "You're not the only one who hears whispers, Lord Baelish, I hear mine too."

"And what would those be," Tyrion asked.

"Certainly a girl sitting solely upon the Iron Throne goes against all Andal traditions," Kevan stated. "But we have time, two more years before the Queen reaches her majority. While many lords don't trust the Queen herself, they trust _us_, the _men_ who advise her. And they trust your lordships at this table, who make up the Regency Council, and hold the _entirety_ of the Crown's sovereign power, until she does reach her majority."

Tyrion eyed his uncle skeptically. "Are you suggesting we raise Viserys to King Regnant, rather than Consort, once they marry?"

"It's you that sits on the Regency Council," Kevan Lannister said innocuously, "not I. But I imagine that such a move will certainly appease many in the realm."

"Viserys is a fool and an idiot, I'm afraid he'll _unappease_ them rather quickly afterwards."

"So get rid of him and break the betrothal," Kevan said plainly. Normally, Tyrion would've expected the honorable Jon Arryn to object at once to such a plot against his new and rather royal ward, but it seemed the old man's mind lay in another world once again.

"Who would _you_ suggest her marry then," Tyrion asked, unhappily observing how the Small Council meeting was somehow devolving into a Lannister family argument. "Loras Tyrell? Her uncle Edmure? The child Sweetrobin, or by the Gods, would you happen to just innocently and by sheer chance suggest a King Lancel of House Lannister..."

"I will have no accusations of any personal ambitions of that sort on my part," his uncle replied indignantly, "especially not from you. I don't care if we un-name her, then name Bran in her place, so long as it solves this..._problem_ we have."

"Break the betrothal," Littlefinger interjected, "and we risk war with the Targaryens again. Put Viserys on the Throne, and we'd have a fool for a King. Make the girl give up her crown to Bran, and they'd think us to be the fools." Finished with his summarization of their rather uniquely awful choices, Littlefinger laughed mirthfully. "Perhaps the Targaryens had it right after all, when they'd just marry them all together."

* * *

**Sansa**

His bare skin felt so smooth under the touch of her hand, his voice so gentle and delicate, when he serenaded her with his poems, his lips so soft, when placed upon hers.

"I love you," she whispered, finally breaking their kiss.

"I love you more, my Queen," the boy replied, holding her tightly in her arms, and Sansa sighed at the unfairness and injustice of it all. Huddled amidst the trees of her favorite gardens in the Keep, with no one but Ser Balon aware of her secret, _their_ secret, the Queen thought of the day she would reach her majority, and they would bring Visreys Targaryen back down the Kingsroad and into her life. But why would she want that prince, when she already had one so fair and beautiful in Lancel Lannister?

"I can't wait," a raspy sound emerged deep within her throat, "one day, we can finally..."

"Let that day be today, my Queen. A man can only beg..."

The Queen sighed sadly. Sitting on her perfect knight's lap, she withdrew her hand from under his shirt, feeling the soft hairs upon his chest. Running her hands down into his vest again, knowing that this was as far as she could go, as far as either one of them could, in expressing their love for each other, she kissed Lancel on his cheek again and again and again and again, taking in his musk, his smell.

"The Queen must remain a maiden," she chided him, biting his nose softly while she spoke, "until she's properly married. But then afterwards, the Queen will be able to do as she pleases, can't she?"

The very thought it made her so excited, and she took his lips again. "You'll be my _mistress_, Ser Lancel. And then, you can do whatever you want to please your Queen."

"Mistress," the young man said thoughtfully, before returning his beautiful green eyes dreamily upon her. "And how many mistresses does the Queen plan to take, Your Grace?"

"As many as I want," Sansa replied, enjoying teasing the boy, enjoying fully this power she had over him. "Aerys had _dozens_ of them, you know..."

"Dozens," Lancel asked in mock horror.

"Dozens," Sansa insisted, running her hands through his hair. "Although," she pretended to contemplate, "maybe I'd want only one. Or two. Or maybe three, but no more than four, I promise!"

Though they both knew she was joking, that there was no one in the world she wanted besides the handsome knight in front of her, in the back of her mind Sansa knew it not the best idea to draw any comparisons of herself to the Mad King, even in jest.

_Your father took no mistresses,_ a voice chided her inside her head, sounding suspiciously like her mother.

_But Robb did,_ she remembered. _He did whatever he wanted to do, and he wasn't even a King yet._

"Must you go," she protested, knowing that their time was almost over, as even Ser Balon could only give them cover for so long. And she despaired, knowing that even though majority and marriage would free her, it would only free her so much, and in all likelihood they'd still have to spend the rest of their lives like this, only able to love each other in secret, with hidden glances and stolen kisses.

If only both of them made it to the rest of their lives.

"I have to," Lancel said, standing up, buttoning his shirt properly. "Father says he expects the Ironborn raids to get worse. I have to help lead our banners, with Lord Gawen's passing."

After all that, all she'd have of him would be this sad note, of farewells, and what could never be's. Close to the edge of the garden, she spied Ser Balon's silhouette and pulled her knight aside one last time. _Her_ knight, she savored the thought, in every way, she'd been the one to raise him to knighthood, after all.

"Promise me something, my love."

"Anything for you, my Queen."

"Write me every day," she whispered, resisting the urge to take him into her arms again. "Tell me about the war, about your home, about the enemy, the men you lead, everything."

"I will, my Queen," Lancel answered, sealing his promise with a kiss.

"I'll write you too," Sansa said, her hands aching for her quill already, "I promise."

* * *

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**Notes & Responses:** First, the battle in the north. Based on past research I've done on raven flight speeds in Westeros, they go pretty damn fast. For a past fic, I was able to establish that they can travel from KL to Highgarden in a day, and a few days, less than a week maybe from KL all the way to Winterfell. So not that much time would've passed between the battle in KL and the battle in the North.

Secondly, Sansa promising to marry Viserys was just a proposal, nothing formal. It's not approved by her Council, and Rhaegar hasn't approved those terms either, certainly not by the time of the second battle. Connington especially would take his orders from Rhaegar, not Viserys, so from their standpoint, they're still at war. And since Benjen hasn't heard word of Rhaegar accepting any peace (which doesn't happen until Dany comes to KL in chapter 10), he's treating Connington as a hostile army.

Dany here is the second heir to a brother she admires, rather than the first heir to a brother she dislikes. As such, this story envisions her to care much less about the throne, conquest, etc. If anything, she wants to escape, to live her own life away from the shadows of her history. She doesn't get dreams about hatching dragons, so to her, those eggs, if anything, are an unnecessary burden, holding her down. Giving them away allows her to symbolically shed her history, and find her own purpose in life.

Finally, the diary is canon, and for me, canon is non negotiable. The only thing I will change in an AU are things that would logically have changed as a butterfly effect from the point of divergence forward. In this story, that point is the Trident. The diary and Rhaegar's wedding happened before that, so it's cemented in stone as canon in this story as well. I don't read a lot of other GOT fics, so I can't say how often it's used by other writers.


	13. What is Dead May Never Die

**Sansa - Year 300**

They looked like clouds in the distance. They were not. They told her the fires were still many leagues away from the capital, with the Blackwater standing safely in between. She feared coming out onto the balcony at night, where she imagined her eyes seeing an eerie glow, staring at the Kingswood far away, yet not so far away. Then she would sleep, and dream of burning, herself, her family, her city and kingdom.

"It'll rain," a gentle voice said next to her. "Then the fire will die, same as all the other ones."

"Will it," the Queen asked solemnly. "Or will new one start, even closer to the capital?"

One thing about Tyrion Lannister, Sansa had come to realize, he was not a man who particularly enjoyed lying to her, same as uncle Petyr. So on such occasions now, when he refused to lie, and instead said nothing, Sansa Stark could assume the worst.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, gnawing nervously against her lower lip. "You would have been a good Hand, I think."

"So would Stannis Baratheon," the dwarf replied impassively. "But your mother wanted Lord Baelish, didn't she?"

"I trust him," she said. "He'll make a good Hand too, I'm sure." It hadn't been just her mother who supported Baelish, because the Queen had agreed with her too. Yet...something felt wrong in her heart.

"I won't lie," the Half Man admitted to her. "The title does hold some sort of...strange appeal to me. My father was King Aerys's Hand, after all...and I have a feeling you'd be a far better mistress than the Mad King was a master."

"If only," she began. It was a foolish thought, but she trusted Lord Tyrion, and knew that he would at least humor politely her foolishness. "When I reach my majority, maybe I'll switch it around. Every year, you and uncl...Lord Baelish, and Lord Stannis, can serve as Hand each. Maybe even Lord Renly too, I do miss him."

She'd hated Renly Baratheon for a little while, when Petyr told her about Ser Loras, and she'd asked Margaery, who'd nodded sadly. Not that she had any right to be jealous after all, betrothed as she was to Prince Viserys, and after the rage, and shame, at her own stupidity for loving a man who'd never love her back, after all her unhappy feelings subsided, she felt only happiness for him, because if anyone deserved the love of such a wonderful man, it was her uncle Renly, politics be damned.

Then how quickly, and thankfully so, did she forget Loras Tyrell, after Lancel Lannister came into her life, and she realized that the greatest of her loves had been standing in front of her all along. Yet, it seemed she was destined to suffer, the Gods snatching her love away from her so quickly.

_No, not the Gods. The rotten, rotten Greyjoys. And today, they'll get their due._

They defeated the Greyjoys, yet Lancel had to remain west, and keep to his family's keep, so all she had was still only her quill, and that occasional letter which never failed to make her worst day her best.

"Remember," Tyrion said, "we'll see Septon Polis, Septon Argus, and Septon Mychel at the execution."

"One of them will be named the new High Septon, correct?"

"That's what we'd expect," Tyrion agreed.

"And which one do we want?" They told her the Faith would choose their own, but then present their selection to her, and her Council, for their approval and blessing before making the selection official.

"Polis, or Argus. They're scholars, men of books and letters, their wisdom and piousness undoubted..."

"But Septon Mychel is one of the Sparrows?"

"We don't know that for sure," Tyrion hesitated. "But it is believed that he...sympathizes with them, at the very least."

She'd heard the City Watch was on high alert, with this movement led by the man they called the High Sparrow streaming into King's Landing as the Faith prepared to select their new High Septon, even though they'd assured her that these Sparrows had no say in the selection process, that they'd be barred from even entering the Great Sept. Sansa would have liked to meet this High Sparrow character. Her mother and her Council had tried to shield her from the awful things he said about her, but she'd found out anyway.

_He's never met me,_ she'd protested in her mind, when Petyr led her read the scrolls from the Council meeting._ He doesn't know me, if only I can meet him, he can see that I'm as devout as he is, that I love the Gods._

_Stop lying to yourself, Sansa._

_Gods, would he be able to see through me, and know about Ser Lancel? Does he speak to the Gods himself, and know firsthand how they must see me, a sinful Queen sitting on their Throne? Is all of this, the deaths, the fires, their punishment, their admonishment to me?_

"It seems a bad omen from the Gods," Sansa whispered, "Lord Arryn and the High Septon passing so soon after one another."

To her surprise, the small man chuckled.

"What," she asked impatiently.

"Forgive me, Your Grace," Tyrion said more seriously. "It's but a symptom of youth, a fleeting blessing, really, to not know that old men...well, they die. It's kind of what old men tend to do, when they do get old."

She ought to know. Hoster Tully had been an old man too, though younger than Jon Arryn, when her grandpapa had died. Yet it had still come as the most brutal shock to her all the same.

Queen and councilor stared at the street below, slowly gathering with people as the day grew later. "You've been drinking, haven't you, Lord Tyrion?"

"A trifling amount." He coughed, then let out a small burp, now that his secret had been revealed. "Executions have never been my thing."

"Balon Greyjoy deserves it," she muttered, thinking about the day they told her about father and Robb. "More than anyone, except Rhaegar."

The Ironborn raids had continued for some time, but they'd finally gotten lucky, ambushing a party near the ruins of Castamere. Lucky indeed, that the party had been led by the so called King of the Seastone Chair himself, Balon Greyjoy, along with his sons Rodrik and Maron. Both had died in the battle, and their father and King wounded seriously, but the maesters had been quite eager to mend him up, so they told her, so he'd survive until his day before the Queen's justice, a day which she'd waited with bated breath for until today.

She heard the cheer of the crowds through the wheelhouse as it carried her royal weight to the Great Sept, though the sound felt subdued compared to prior trips. It must be the fires, Sansa thought. They wouldn't tell her, but she'd overheard Lord Stannis and her mother talking worriedly about a panic breaking out in the city if the rains never did come, and this newest fire in the Kingswood made its way all the to the Blackwater.

But the people were still happy, otherwise, they assured her, and the Queen heard it with her own ears ascending once more the fabled steps of the Sept. Atop stood her two Councils, all present except for her mother, who'd accompanied her by her side. Beaming proudly atop the steps was Lord Kevan Lannister, the unknowing father of the man she loved, and now rewarded with Jon Arryn's position on her Regency Council for his feat in capturing Balon Greyjoy. There were new faces atop the steps as well, the Lord Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort, newly appointed to fill in uncle Petyr's seat, now that he'd risen to Hand. Her fellow northerner had brought along his bastard son as well, though she did not see him in the crowd, and figured the Ramsay boy was probably standing somewhere in the back. They were her people, the blood of the First Men, except their eyes did not bring her comfort the way uncle Benjen and his family did, they felt more strange and foreign to her than even the Targaryen Princess, or the other occasional dignitaries paying her tribute now and then in the Throne Room.

The Queen took her place at the center of the royal line, after which they brought the iron bound cage from within the Sept, so that the presence of the Gods inside the great temple could try what they could in cleansing this awful man from his heresies and most heinous sins. Her eyes searched the small prison, bars adorned mockingly with the sigil of the Kraken, which they said had carried this man all the way from his capture near the Sunset Sea, and at first she could even not spot the prisoner.

He was a small, shriveled thing of skin and bones, his skin a dried parched yellow, the stench overwhelming her nostrils before Tyrion's man Sandor dragged him unwillingly out of his cage, and Sansa thought she'd never seen a more haggardly, pitifully looking man, not even after the battle outside her city walls. This _thing_, who apparently still lived and breathed, did not move once at all of his own accord, except exacting from his frail lungs a hideous cough every few seconds, and she wondered if they'd even given him any food or water on the march to King's Landing.

"Balon Greyjoy," Lord Baelish announced officially, "you are accused of treason, regicide..."

He was the worst of the worst, but did even the worst deserve to suffer as he'd obviously suffered? He did not seem cruel, or evil, he just looked a poor old man, thinner than ever the beggars of Flea Bottom. Had enough justice already been done to him, in her name?

Sansa looked back, and saw Ser Balon. "Water," she whispered, "does anyone have water?"

Her Kingsguards looked around nervously, but soon enough someone brought up a small jug and handed it to her.

"...in the name of Queen Sansa of House Stark, you are sentenced..."

Sneaking her head under the proclamations, she took the small jar of water and bent down by the condemned man, pressing it against his lips. "Would you like some water, Ser," she whispered, aware that Petyr had suddenly stopped speaking, that her entire Council and court, nay, the entire city, were now watching their Queen in a stunned silence, caught completely unawares by her action. The so-called King of the Sunset Sea didn't answer, and she tried to find the pupils of his eyes, hidden behind heavy lids. "Some water, before...the justice is done?"

The man's lips opened slightly, but rather than drink her offering, she heard him cough again, and then felt upon her hands the most awful sensation. At first she'd thought she spilled, but then Sansa realized that the man had actually _spit_ on her, the disgusting, viscous fluid he'd extracted from deep within his throat now dripping down her knuckles and fingers.

"Arrgh," the Queen shrieked in hideous fright, dropping the jug on the ground and backing away in both fright and embarrassment from the condemned man. Instantly, the Clegane man and Ser Courtnay moved in, swearing and kicking at the old man, who took it all with his overbearing silence, save for another horrible cough after they'd finished with him. Then, a burning sensation upon her knees, and Sansa realized she'd tripped and fallen, and now lay sprawled upon the ground, eyes level with Balon Greyjoy across from her, feeling like the worst fool in the world.

_What? How...what do I do..._

She lay there, frightened and frozen, feeling her eyes welling up, before she felt two tugs upon her arms, and saw her mother and Ser Balon at her side, helping her to her feet, Lord Tyrion trailing them with concern bubbling upon his face.

"What is dead may never die!" The way he'd been coughing, Sansa would not have guessed that the man could still shout as such.

A soft and uneasy murmur grew in the crowd gathered, and her body no longer her own, Sansa heard the sound of sword clashing against stone. A look back, seeing the blood seeping against the feet of the man they called the Hound, and suddenly she could take no more, surrendering her body entirely and letting them carry her back to her wheelhouse even while blood still poured from the neck of the Ironborn traitor, burying her head in her mother's bosom so as to not witness the tens of thousands laughing at the stupidity of this girl who dared to call herself their Queen.

She heard nothing on the ride back to the Keep, her ears still buried in her mother's lap, but Sansa imagined there were no cheers this time. The stench of the dead man lingered through the air of the carriage, one last curse from the man who'd committed so much sacrilege already against her family.

* * *

**Daenerys**

_"The North Remembers, my love. Torrhen knelt, and for three hundred years the wolf counts its days, summers pass and warm winds blow, yet our hearts feel ever winter, our pride shaken, our crown broken, our minds closed to reason, much less love."_

_"You tell me there's no hope,"_ the man who played her brother professed. _"Yet as a just prince, hope must be the only cause I hold, the only weapon I wield, for how can I sit on a throne, and look upon my realms, my inheritance, with dismay, or mistrust, with a heart aimed to keeping secrets. And what a secret, my love, our love, our passion, my need, my very being. Aye, love, it binds our world together, between kingdoms, and sigils, and houses, our hearts all beat as one, love its desire, love the air it needs to breathe."_

She looked down at her feet, feigning sadness, the dark braids of her wig falling down across her shoulders still a strange sight to see even after so many performances already.

_"My love,"_ she said, pressing her hand against Izembaro's chest, a ridiculous sight, Daenerys thought, the man playing her brother older than her brother today, much less nine and ten years before. _"You speak of love as if it's a balm, a cure, an antidote to all that could ill the world. Your words are fire and blood, yet my betrothed, only blood can satiate the fire in his heart, lit from what but love. And my brother, his heart has turned to ice..."_

_"A shame, the shame of my family, to stain our name forever more, my father's crimes against yours."_ The actor sighed. _"Go then, I bother you no more. I have no right, my wife, my beloved son and daughter await me, yet...is it wrong, that my heart desires more? The burden I must bear, to restore this realm, with honor, with justice...yet my greatest fear, to bear it alone."_

_"Then let it be our burden,"_ Daenerys insisted, placing a kiss upon the older actor's lips, thinking sardonically that this may be the closest she would ever approach towards her family's traditions of incest. _"I am not my brother's slave, I am not the North's flower to hide. Let Winterfell fall, let the sky crash against us, and seven kingdoms burned to Old Valyria, yet I am yours, and you are mine..."_

Another round of applause, another endless tide of waves and bows, and gold to fill her pockets, yet it was not the mansion she went to after, but the city's harbor, and a small boat docked quietly in the calm waters under the light of a full moon.

"I did not see you in the audience," she said, pressing her naked body against his, her fingers tracing small circles upon his chest on a comfortably warm summer's night.

"I left, just after the...um," Daario Naharis's eyes shifted nervously, "the duel..."

"Oh really," Daenerys asked skeptically. "It was quite a shock, wasn't it? Izembaro decided to change things up a bit, have Robert slay Rhaegar tonight, made for an interesting reaction for the audience."

A strong hand grabbed the back of her head, and pulled her into his lips as his fingers ran desperately through her hair.

"I'm sorry," Daario laughed, after yet another passionate kiss, "I can't watch them put that wig on your head, dress you up like some northern wildling girl..."

"Lyanna Stark was no wildling," Daenerys insisted, before settling her head against his chest, moaning softly as Daario rubbed his fingers up and down the small of her back. "I don't blame you though. It's a pretty bad play, actually..."

"Hmm," Daario muttered. "Awful."

"Yet, the people love it. Even more than_ The Realm's Delight._"

"People are stupid. They like stupid things."

Because it was true love the people liked to see, and there was no love in the last play, not between Rhaenyra with her friends, or foes. And even though this true love between the wolf and dragon found itself snuffed tragically in its cradle, the people still cried for it, so long as the love and the lovers remained true to the end. Yet at least some of the words she recited Daenerys knew to be a lie. She knew her brother, after all, and Rhaegar was not a person to let go willingly anything he believed rightfully his, herself being the only exception.

Be it so unlike the Spider to leave no subtlety in his verses, or whomever he paid to write them. Daenerys had to give it to Izembaro, who'd been the one who'd written their last play, the way they sang and twisted words and truth to the audience. When she won a battle, they cheered her, even though she was as monstrous as Lady Crane's Queen Alicent. When her uncle Daemon died, they mourned him, even though he was just as much of a beast as Prince Aemond, whom he killed so heroically. At least there was nothing lost upon the audience with this one. And Izembaro did not mind, so long as the coin kept on falling into their hands.

"They'll get tired of it soon," Daenerys whispered, feeling the drifts of slumber overcoming her.

"You'll get tired of it before they," her lover replied, knowing her all too well. "You're already tired of it."

She chided at him playfully. "Someone has to earn our coin, you know."

Daario looked away. "There's another war they want me to fight, actually."

"Where," Daenerys replied, concerned. Yet she'd known this day would come, hadn't she? Daario was a killer, a soldier of fortune, after all. He was in Braavos only because they paid him to remain in Braavos, after safeguarding a caravan of gold from Qohor back to its place in the Iron Bank, then happening to stumble into their theater on the last night she'd worn the Crown of Rhaenyra Targaryen.

"Volantis," came the casual reply. "Some rebellion or another in one of their colonies, north along the Rhoyne."

"Are you going to go?"

_Do I care that you go?_

With one smooth motion, he flipped her on her back, the full weight of his body lying atop her once more. Daenerys shrieked in delight, to make him feel satiated, to make him feel powerful, to make him believe she needed him as much as he needed her, because acting came so easily to her now.

"I've got some time," Daario smirked, thrusting into her now that he'd recovered again. His husky voice whispered into her ear while they made love. "Maybe we could make a stop in the Summer Islands, first."

Maybe she could act for him, just awhile longer.

* * *

**Tyrion**

"Well, that was a disaster."

The Queen had meant well. She always meant well, Tyrion knew, yet her good intentions seem ever determined in cursing the very girl from whence they came from. Sansa had announced her betrothal to the Targaryen princeling out of the purest of intentions as well, yet Tyrion knew well the toll that the unwanted promise had extracted upon the poor girl from the moment she'd uttered the words out loud.

"How is she, Your Grace," Petyr asked the Queen Dowager. They were all concerned for Sansa, none more than the girl's own mother, who'd looked like she aged ten years since the first time Tyrion met her, so shortly after the death of her husband and first born son. He did not envy Catelyn Tully now, having to watch with her own eyes, even as they spoke, the pressures of an Iron Throne cutting slowly and deeply into her eldest daughter's soul.

"Sansa is strong," Queen Catelyn muttered, layers of rings encircling her weary eyes. "Far stronger than any of us could imagine..."

"She will recover," Littlefinger said gently, comforting his old friend. "The realm will recover. After all, despite the...unfortunate happenstance today, we must look back at the events at hand. Balon Greyjoy is dead, the Crown triumphant, the murder of King Eddard and Prince Robb avenged."

"Yet the Iron Island remain as incorrigible as ever," Stannis countered. "They'll crown Euron Greyjoy their next King of Salt or whatever, or the man's son Theon."

"The raids won't stop either," Roose Bolton said, their new Master of Whispers. "I've word from the North that their sails have already been spotted near Flint's Finger."

"Shame we can't end the war with another betrothal," Baelish responded, a sly look upon his face, "unless Queen Sansa may follow in the footsteps of Aegon the Conqueror, take for herself two consorts."

A stinging look from the Queen Dowager, and Petyr flinched, regretting his remark instantly. Tyrion knew, as did everyone, their history, how the new Hand to the Queen had once loved Sansa's mother. Loved her still, many whispered in the corridors of the Keep, and they all wondered how long the man would keep his respect towards her late husband and King before he'd propose his own hand in marriage to the Queen Dowager. Years ago it would have been a preposterous notion, an upstart like Baelish marrying even a Tully, much less the widow of a King. Yet, the idea of a Hand marrying Queen Catelyn seemed the more realistic, and Tyrion wondered whether the Queen Dowager had thought upon those same lines, when she'd supported Petyr Baelish's appointment as Jon Arryn's successor.

"There is the matter of the other betrothals we are meant to discuss," Tyrion interjected, "those of the Princess Arya and the Prince of Dragonstone. I believe when we last met on the matter, we seemed to be coming closer to a consensus for Prince Bran and Lady Shireen."

First he looked at Stannis, who remained impassive, as if his daughter's name had not been brought up at all, then at an unhappy looking Mace Tyrell, who seemed to still believe that Margaery could marry the young Prince, despite their significant difference in age.

"Bran is twelve," Catelyn said quietly, "the same age as Sansa when she arranged her betrothal." The Queen Dowager addressed the Master of War. "The proposition is agreeable, Lord Stannis, but I'd like to wait some time before any announcement...I'd like at least some of my children to remain..._children_, for just some time longer."

"As Your Grace wishes," Stannis said agreeably, before turning to the rest of the Council. "As to Princess Arya, I believe we discussed Lancel Lannister, Loras Tyrell, and Edric Dayne of Starfall?"

"Lord Edric is closer to her age," Catelyn said, trying to ignore the flustered stare from Mace, the possibility of his house being twice rejected to a royal marriage coming closer and closer to reality.

_And Edric Dayne would be a more appropriate husband to the girl in other ways as well, compared to Ser Loras._

"I've spoken to the Queen herself," Tyrion added, "for what it's worth. She's met the boy Edric once, after the Battle of King's Landing. He's a soldier, and Her Grace believes he will make a good Lord husband to her sister."

"A marriage to the Lord of Starfall is not disagreeable," Baelish semed to agree at first, "especially had we had the need to appoint House Dayne the stewards of Dorne. Yet, House Martell _did_ surrender, and meet all our terms. Prince Doran's eldest son Quentyn remains unattached...perhaps it may be wise to build closer ties with the Martells, rather than reignite this wedge between Doran and the Crown by betrothing the Princess to their rival house in Dorne."

"I...," Tyrion expected the Queen Dowager to explode at first, indignant towards the idea that both her daughters would be marrying into families who'd betrayed and murdered her husband and son. Yet, she stopped herself with admirable composure, and looked sadly downwards, taking several deep breaths before she spoke. "Robb...I'd be lying to myself if I said he didn't play his part in this feud between my family and the Martells. If the burden must be Arya's to mend it...perhaps she may bear it. She's strong, both my daughters are _so_ strong."

"It's worth looking into," Tyrion said, considering the prospects in his own mind, "so long as we may have assurances that the Martells _can_ be trusted going forward."

A hostage in Prince Trystane, he recalled. Perhaps a not so blushing bride in Arya Stark. Stranger things have happened concerning the politics of the Crown, Tyrion knew, yet even he, no great lover of war, wondered how much further they could keep bending to the whims of their enemies.

* * *

**Rhaegar**

_Where is she?_

Obviously he knew the answer. Her little sister, a Princess, a dragon, the jewel of the realm, would rather play a mummer's farce on the streets of Braavos than keep his company a day longer. Of course, Varys had somehow found an advantage in spite of a little sister determined to place herself in a corner. In his mind, he knew he could not blame her, because Daenerys _was_ a Targaryen after all, and Targaryens were meant for more than merely the caretaking of their crippled brethren. But that did not mean it did not hurt, her rejection of him.

_Do you forget, all the love I bore you, when I raised you as practically my own daughter? Do you forget, when we laughed together, the only times I ever laughed, after the Trident. Do you forget, when you cried, and I held you, and told you of a better world someday, for both of us?_

"The bitch isn't made for a Queen, or even a Lady of Winterfell," Connington chuckled in his corner, upon hearing the news from Varys. "Keep it going, she'll hang herself. Or slit her own wrist on Your Grace's throne, like Maegor, or the Maegor with the tits."

"Certainly," their Spider replied, "the worth of those who sit on the Iron Throne reveals themselves to the world, sooner or later."

Connington continued, his hand stroking the sword of the Usurper's as he talked. "Is this your doing, Varys?"

"Alas, a happy accident, though one which may have potential uses for our good cause."

"What of the selection of the new High Septon," Rhaegar asked.

"Yes," Varys merely agreed. "A most important matter, indeed."

"Septon Mychel's the one we want, right?"

Varys looked carefully at Connington first, then his King, before answering. "Our _friend_ in King's Landing has assured me that a...preferable result will be had for us."

It wasn't that they did not trust Jon Connington, but the man had taken to drink more and more, especially since his last and unsuccessful war. Rhaegar did not begrudge his old friend for his failure, because by the time he'd come up against Benjen Stark, the war had already been lost, by his own brother no less. The war they waged now was one waged in secret, in the shadows and recesses and hidden corners between Pentos and the other side of the sea...a kind of war Rhaegar barely understood, much less a soldier like Connington.

"Our friend in King's Landing," he said after Connington had left, though Rhaegar wasn't quite sure whether he was just speaking to himself, or Varys. He'd guessed at it before, towards others, but events changed, during the reign of the Quiet Wolf, and then the wolf's daughter. And now with Jon Arryn dead, there remained only one constant remaining. "It's Baelish, isn't it?"

The Spider smirked, confirming his suspicions. "I have a feeling our friend will have his _hand_ in many an important matter to come."

* * *

**Petyr**

"The whores will testify?"

The lean man with the gaunt eyes who wished to succeed as the next High Septon, whom his friends across the Narrow Sea wished to succeed as the next High Septon, was a very disagreeable man to Petyr Baelish, newly appointed the Hand to his Queen. He wondered how a man like Septon Mychel could sit before him, inside his favorite domain, when he knew that the holy man would be an implacable enemy to him, or his establishments, at the very least, once he became placed in a position of power. Yet, politics was funny, wasn't it, the alliances it created? For a man like Baelish, it paid, in more than just coin, to find allies everywhere, even in the most unlikely of people.

"They will tell the truth," he said, "that Septon Argus is a familiar patron to them. My understanding is, however, that they will seek you out, because you are pure, and they wish to repent of their sins and their ways...and certainly not because I led you to them."

"Hmmph," the holy man replied, determined to keep his dark and beady eyes upon him, and not the titillating sights of the scantily clad women, and some men, in his employ. His strenuous attempts at controlling himself, Littlefinger knew, only meant that Septon Mychel was a man with appetites he could scarcely control.

"With the pressures of the Sparrow presence in the city," Littlefinger continued, "...well, I wouldn't presume to lecture you upon the internal workings of the Faith, but...I imagine your position will be quite strong. Especially with _these_."

He handed to the holy man a batch of papers.

"What are those?"

"Letters."

"Letters?" Looking ever more closely, the Holy Man took one piece of parchment in his hands, eyes widening in terror and delight as he read its contents, then recognizing the seal and signature at its bottom.

"Letters from the Queen to her lover," Petyr said with a satisfied smile upon his face. "Letters from her lover to Her Grace. Letters which spell out the intent of the Queen and her lover to continue their unnatural...relations even after her marriage to Prince Viserys, words written by the Queen herself expressing her intent to take endless so-called..._mistresses_, once Her Grace reaches her majority."

It'd cost him gold, these letters. Not that he paid for them directly, the gold had gone first to the whores, who'd then provided the foolish boy all the complimentary services his establishment had to offer, enough to for him to convince the young man in finding the gall to court a Queen very much betrothed to another. Once the crime had been committed, Lancel Lannister became his captive entirely, with little more gold needed to ensure his obedience, if not absolute loyalty.

Not that the gold he'd already spent wasn't worth it, a cheap price to pay for the greatest prize he could dream of.


	14. The Houses of the Holy

**Young Ned**

When he'd been younger, Ned Dayne had seen with his own eyes the beautiful the Water Gardens of House Martell, visiting Lemonwood and the Salt Shore along the way. Those beautiful shorelines had been idyllic sanctuaries for the most pampered highborns in all of Dorne to lounge in, but there was nothing calming about the straits of the Summer Sea running below the towers of his own home. But then, House Dayne had never been one to rest easy upon their laurels.

His aunt Ashara had not been the first Dayne to end their lives jumping from one of the towers in Starfall, but at least they'd found her body when it washed ashore several days after, upstream along the Torentine river. Most of the other bodies disappeared, buried under the furious torrents and eddies of the ocean below, the trenches here deeper than the God's Eye, his late mother had once warned him, even though they formed the immediate shore below the castle. Certainly, it was no place to go swimming, not by the castle, the closest spot being a rare calm section of the Torentine a half day's ride away.

_My Uncle Arthur was killed by a Stark. My Aunt Ashara killed herself because of the same Stark. Yet I ride, fight, and kill, serving that man's daughter. _

_What a stranger coincidence still, that they call me and he by the same name._

It was what it was. Last he saw his aunt Allyria, the last Dayne alive beside himself, and their distant cousins in High Hermitage, she who'd married Lord Beric only five moons after the Battle of King's Landing, the new Lady of Blackhaven had told him to let old grudges die, to think not of revenge against House Stark, but to serve them as loyally and nobly as Ser Arthur did the Targaryens.

_"We are soldiers, us Daynes," she'd whispered to him. "Our claims are not to any kingdoms, not since Nymeria's War, or even to play kingmaker and the such, but to our sword, our name, our honor, our valor. Claim Dawn, like my brother Arthur, wield it as justly and nobly as he, and you'll make your father proud, and...wherever they are...Arthur, Ashara..."_

Yet they'd almost given him a kingdom, until the Martells finally submitted to the Crown. He'd returned to an empty castle save for the castellan and the few guards and servants, now that Allyria was fully installed in Blackhaven. It was his respite, this nearly abandoned home, from years of war even as the seven kingdoms found peace, yet he and Beric and sometimes Brienne patrolling endlessly for bandits in the Kingswood, or for evidence of further Martell treachery amidst the marches marking the border between Dorne and the Stormlands. But Beric had returned home to attend to his newborn son for a few moons, spurring this brief visit for Ned to this native land he'd made war against, that he'd almost usurped.

He avoided the temptation to follow the winding stairs up the Palestone Tower and stare into the milky smooth surface of Dawn, his family's ancestral sword. When he'd been a child, Ned had always dreamed of claiming it, this fantasy that fair maidens and young lads would sing his songs they same way they did of Ser Arthur, who seemed to be better love under King Eddard's reign than the one that preceded it, despite the fact that he'd fought on the losing side.

At least he'd put House Dayne on the winning side this last war. Like his illustrious uncle at a young age, Ned was far from a stranger to war now, he'd killed men from Essos, men from Dorne, and bandits from the Gods knew where the vagrants had migrated from. There was nothing joyous in killing, yet, he'd felt nothing so awful afterwards either, even when it was that one fellow Dornishman during his first battle.

But Ned sensed there was more to it than just duty. He'd slain three bandits on a raid in the Rainwood, one a boy barely older than himself. When the skirmish was over, he'd felt disappointed, not because he'd enjoyed the killings and wished there were more to kill...but there'd been...a certain, inestimable flow to the fighting, a dance, perhaps, and looking back upon it with sober eyes that night, he'd felt like he'd been in a trance. So did he in fact wish for more battles, for more men that he could kill, with or without Dawn?

Would he claim the sword, and find himself a better killer? The best killer? Just how good could he be at this awful thing? Arthur Dayne had been the one to slay the Smiling Knight in single combat, after all, yet how did those who'd suffered under the reign of the Mad King see his uncle, except as the same villain reborn? Just how unsullied was the blade of his family, given the blood it'd shed of men, and maybe even women, who'd fought against a cruel tyrant, and rightfully so, Ned believed. Broken vows or not, selfish as his intent may or may not have been, hadn't the actions of the Kingslayer been the most honorable of all Aerys's Kingsguard, if judged by result?

And if he were ever allowed to take Dawn for himself, and the Queen or one of her princely heirs order him to slaughter women and children, or do nothing whilst they were raped or burned, would he be as true to his bonds of fealty as the great Ser Arthur Dayne had been? Could it be, even, that the sword had betrayed its master, that it had been Dawn who'd allowed Ned Stark to kill his uncle, the sword itself having judged his cause, if not his person, unworthy of its avail? At least such cruelties were unlikely with this Queen, he'd met her after all, she'd been beautiful, yet also kind, and not a minute after, had he not seen the manifestation of her generous spirit, when she not only spared the Targaryen coward and invader, but offered herself to him as a bounty and balm to his defeat?

_What truly great knight could Ser Arthur have been, had he served a Queen like Sansa Stark?_

The day was late, and the boy they called Young Ned rested uneasily in his empty castle, wondering what its ghosts thought of the legacies they'd left behind, now resting solely upon his shoulders.

* * *

**Trystane**

"Prince Trystane?"

The shy girl with hair the color of gold offered him her hand, her fingers clutching a fistful of flowers.

"Are they for me?"

The girl nodded, shyly, yet also very eagerly. "I picked them with father and Tommen on our ride this morning."

"Thank you Myrcella," Trystane replied, taking the flowers from her, wondering what he was to do with them after, without hurting the girl. She was still a child, a pretty child, and less of one than she'd been the day they'd first brought him to Winterfell. Also, becoming more besotted with him, Trystane knew, in less childlike ways with each day, and probably more so in the years to come.

"I'll miss you," the girl said, almost crushing the flowers he'd taken from her as she hugged him tightly. "I'll write you, I'll tell you all about King's Landing, when I return."

"I can't wait to hear it, Cella."

Though Trystane wondered when, or even _if_ he would ever see her again. Myrcella was accompanying her mother and brother south not just to bring her before the court, so as to begin the process of arranging the prospects of marriage for the two fairer haired children of Lord Stark, but also because it was an open secret that the Lady Cersei hoped that the Queen would finally take her elder daughter into her service as a lady-in-waiting. Myrcella knew of all this, of course, but no doubt the girl still harbored a secret hope that she could talk her mother out of staying in the south, instead returning to Winterfell, and wedding her favorite Dornish Prince beside the Godswood.

"I wish you could come with us."

He wished so too. Trystane did not need a maester to tell him that the Lady of Winterfell would never deign to approve a marriage between her jewel of a daughter and the youngest traitor child of a traitor Prince. And though he saw her as his own sister now, because she'd been indeed completely a child when he'd first met her, Trystane knew come the day the Lady Myrcella Stark grew into a beautiful jewel of a woman, he, or anyone, would be lucky to have such a sweet soul as his wife. Were that possible, except even if the Lady Cersei and Lord Benjen did give them permission to wed, assuming generously that Trystane would ever be permitted to wed _anyone_, rather than having to take one set of vows or another...well, he could want her, he could very well love her dearly, but always his truest heart would forever belong to another most precious flower.

"Just us scoundrels now," Jon remarked, watching their carriage leaving the gates of Winterfell. Rather than hug or passionately embrace the other, the Lady Cersei had simply kissed her husband's hand politely, before departing with her three younger children. There would probably be no talk of a marriage for Rykka for the time being, a shy girl of seven, but Cersei could not bear to leave without her youngest daughter. So all the fairest inhabitants of Winterfell would go south, the castle now solely the domain of three Stark men, and one Dornish hostage.

"Don't be pissing in the open now," Lord Stark chided his nephew with some bemusement, "you hear?"

"That'll be you, uncle, once we can no longer see her from the walls, and you have yourself yer first cup o'ale." Jon turned to his oldest cousin in Winterfell. "About time you joined us, Kendron. Bet the boy Trystane can take his drink better than you by now."

"I think I'll abstain," the heir to Winterfell replied rather haughtily, standing with his usual slouch. "I've work to do."

Kendron Stark was little liked in the castle, Trystane had gathered enough in his years here, and liked even fewer, somewhat tolerating his father, showing actual affection for none but his mother. But the young man, an odd looking thing with Lord Benjen's dark long mane but his mother's green eyes and cheekbones, did seem to have a talent for numbers and figures, having taken over many of the aspects of his father's Lordship that he could manage from a desk, rather than on horseback.

"Come Kendron," Jon pressed, "pissin' yer pants is more fun than you'd think."

The boy, older than Trystane but younger than Jon, did not dignify his cousin's remark with a response. Not that Kendron had any wish to ride south, Trystane guessed, except that time away from his mother made him more...pissy, than even the usual. But there'd been no need for him to join his family, because the future Lord of Winterfell had to marry a woman from the North, after all, and the betrothal had already been made with Alys Karstark, to be carried out once the younger girl came of age.

Alas, there was no son to join the father when they three gathered for a drink in an empty Great Hall that night. The bitter northern ales tasted strange to Trystane, and though he'd only had the occasional sip of a Dornish red before he'd gone to war, based on memory alone he would guess he still preferred the meads of his homeland to this Northern..._swill_, as his uncle Oberyn would've called it. But the company wasn't the worst, Trystane thought. He missed his uncle, and he missed a few of his Sands, though not all of them. But Arianna had been Arianne, and Quentyn'd spent most of his life in Yronwood, Areo Hotah didn't speak, period, so there'd been few to drink or spar or make crude remarks with at home.

"I wrote to Queen Catelyn today," the Lord of Winterfell said, in a sober tone. "I'd expect Roose Bolton to ask the Queen to legitimize his bastard, after some time in the capital."

"You don't want it to happen," Trystane asked.

"If Ramsay is legitimized a Bolton, then he'd press his son for Myrcella's hand."

"Lady Cersei would never allow her daughter to wed a bastard," Jon explained to Trystane, a strange look in his eye.

"I'd refuse him, of course," Benjen Stark continued, "but it'd cause unnecessary trouble. Especially if we can nip it in the bud, before it'd ever arise."

"Myrcella tells me Lady Cersei wants to wed her to Edmure Tully," Trystane said. The poor girl had not liked the thought.

Lord Benjen shook his head. "He'd be too old for her. There's no need for alliances like that, not unless there's war to be had. But we're at peace, and besides, the bond between Starks and Tully's already sits upon the Iron Throne."

"Loras Tyrell then," Jon asked, curious as well to their cousins' prospects, the men eager for gossip only when not in sight of their womenfolk. "Edric Dayne, perhaps, or...if we speak of a Dornishman, maybe your brother Quentyn?"

Jon was teasing him, no doubt aware of the girl's fondness towards him, and Trystane did not know just quite how to respond to his barb, but fortunately Lord Stark interrupted his unease. "Cersei aims high, no doubt. I'd been happy with a Manderly or Flint for Myrcella, a Mormont girl for Tommen...but she wants to see at least some of her children married back into southron families. But great houses though...I'd settle for a Mallister or Royce...or even a Frey."

Jon eyed his uncle skeptically. "A Frey? You must be drunker than I'd thought."

The Lord of Winterfell laughed, and shook his head. "Aye, probably not a Frey." He looked towards Jon. "Have you given any thought...about the raven that came the last moon?"

"Lady Margaery?"

Benjen nodded.

Jon paused at first. "Lord Tyrion tells me it'll help Queen Sansa secure the Reach, but...he also writes that Queen Catelyn is opposed to the match."

"Aye, and I would not want to be on the wrong end of Queen Catelyn's wrath."

"I agree with her," Jon continued. "With my...blood, a marriage with a Tyrell could threaten Queen Sansa's power."

"Or help it," Benjen countered. "Queen Catelyn knows you, I do, you'd never usurp her daughter's claim...although, it's probably not you she fears, but any children you may have."

"I've heard all my life of Lady Margaery's beauty," Jon said, a rare dreamy look in his dark eyes. "Aye, if they could assure me the woman's barren, I'd jump into that marriage headfirst."

"I'll bet you'd jump into her with something else first," Trystane remarked, and they all laughed and drank some more.

"It'd be wise to wait, at any rate," Benjen counselled. "The Queen marries Viserys in a year, after she reaches her majority. Any questions of succession would be better settled by then, especially if she births a son. Maybe you ought write the Lady Margaery, bid her wait." He narrowed his eyes at Jon. "Nay, _beg_ her wait."

"Aye," Jon laughed, "maybe I will."

Trystane had a feeling he wouldn't though. Though northern traditions allowed for very few knights and squires, he'd served the last few years as Jon Stark's squire in all but name, despite the fact that the man was only four years older than him. And when they talked, after they'd sparred, Trystane somehow learning a new skill or move each time he crossed swords with Jon, they spoke of joining the Queensguard together. Except the prospects for that weren't great. The oldest of the Whitecloaks was Ser Dustin Hunter, a man of nine and fifty, and Jon had in mind to ask the Queen to take his place when they next saw her at her wedding. Torrhen Karstark was the next oldest, so Trystane would likely have to wait many more years, hoping that they didn't get too impatient and make him take the Black first.

He'd lived far longer than he'd suspected he would, when they'd caught him, a cowering and frightened boy crying for his uncle. And the North wasn't as bad as he feared, with Lord Benjen being a good man, new friends like Jon and Myrcella or even sweet Tommen Stark, though Trystane wondered if his lack of hatred for his new home and captors ought to bring his family shame. But then, he'd only known the North of the Long Summer, hadn't he? The Starks were right, the Starks were always right...Winter was coming, and Trystane Martell still held narrowest of hopes that he would find himself somewhere warmer, once it did arrive.

* * *

**Sansa**

"I won't lie to you, Your Grace. It's not ideal."

"I _know_ it's not ideal," her mother thundered back at Petyr. "What can we do about this? How did the Septon even get his grubby hands on these letters in the first place?"

Sansa could not fathom what was worse, that all the city and soon all the country would hate her for this, or the fact that these letters, these deepest secrets of her very soul, which she'd so foolishly revealed into words, were being read and passed around by all these men, all the men of the Faith from across the country no less, gathered now to pass judgment upon her soul, it seemed, rather than selecting the next High Septon.

"I spoke to Roose Bolton," Petyr replied. "He believes the young man's Septon or Septa may have found them, if Ser Lancel were sloppy enough to leave them lying about..."

She wished she could die. She wished she had died, that night witnessing the battle atop the castle walls, that a stray arrow may have flown into her chest and ended her right there and then. They would've remembered her a young and brave Queen, who'd given her life to save her country, rather than now, a...a _whore_, probably, looked down upon by her own court and Queensguard.

"Please," she begged, lifting her head out of her blanket, "tell them not to punish Ser Balon. I...I practically ordered him to cover for us, he had no choice, he was just doing what he was told..."

Her mother's reply was curt. "Ser Balon's the last thing we have to worry about, Sansa."

Just _Sansa_. Not _Sansa dear,_ or _dear child,_ or _love_. The morbid thought occurred to her, that at least her grandpapa was no longer alive to see her shame his family and their name in such an awful manner.

_But he can see me from one of the heavens...he would've known all this time. And father. How badly must they both hate me?_

Her uncle Petyr sighed worriedly. "I'm afraid that Septon Argus has...made it known his sympathies with Septon Mychel and the Sparrow factions."

He did not judge her, Sansa didn't think, he'd just been concerned for her, same as Lord Tyrion. And her mother hadn't been _too_ mad at her, not for long anyway. But it didn't matter, Sansa could tell how much her stupidity vexed mother and caused her to lose sleep, and regretted everything, from that first day when she'd blushed when Lancel Lannister found her in the gardens and praised her beauty.

_But why should I regret loving who I love, wanting whom I want? I sit on the Iron Throne, and almost every man who's sat on it before me has taken whomever he'd wanted. Robb too._

_Except look what it cost Robb, and father with him._ Could she live with herself, if her own indiscretions could cost her the lives of her mother, or siblings?

"The next High Septon will be sympathetic to the High Sparrow, for sure."

"The High Sparrow would have my daughter stripped of her Crown and sent to the silent sisters," her mother fumed furiously, at no one, Sansa thought, because she couldn't scream at Petyr, since he was only trying to help them both, or herself, because she was still her mother's Queen. "Sansa made a mistake, it's true. But she's a girl, how many girls, how many squires and lads have done so much worse! Remember when you fought Brandon Stark, remember..."

From under her pillow, Sansa heard her mother collapse dejectedly back into her chair. She'd been far too mortified to leave her room since that first day when they'd all found out, letting only her family and Petyr and Tyrion see her, not even Jeyne or Margaery.

"We can't let one of the Sparrows be selected, we simply just can't! They'll put my daughter...they'll put their Queen on trial, the gall of them!"

"The Crown could refute the Septons' selection, make their own choice. It won't be taken well, not at all, but we may not have any other alternative." Hushed silence, before she heard his voice lowered, though still reaching her ears, hidden under her blanket. "I've have heard word, talk of a Walk of Atonement."

Sansa shuddered underneath her sheets.

"She will repent, she will profess her guilt and ask for forgiveness before them all, but...a Walk of Shame? Where was this Walk when Aerys was fucking his whores, or Maegor, or every single fucking Aegon, whatever of His Names, with their sister-mistresses and daughters and nieces..."

This must be so bad, for her mother to swear so vehemently. Sansa had only heard her mother swear once, when they'd found out about Pyke.

"Given her age," Petyr said softly, "and the lack of severity in her...transgressions, Septon Polis has assured me that it may be tempered down. The Queen can keep her wardrobe during the walk, for one..."

"No," her mother snarled again. "I'll not have them humiliate her so, humiliate our families. Kill them, kill the Sparrows, I don't care, kill these Septons who've never had a daughter, who'd forget their own sisters and mothers, who'd shame a young girl..."

"A show of force can be considered."

Sansa shuddered again. Are they actually going to kill people, godly men, or even innocent Septas, because of her?

"...I know for a fact that Lord Stannis is not particularly fond of the Faith," she heard Petyr continue. "If we call his bannerman to...ensure the safety of the city...some may obey, others would question it, but we'd have enough to pacify the streets, I think. Mace Tyrell won't be happy about that, and the Westerlands are far, and Lord Tyrion...I suppose..."

"You speak as if the country is already rising in rebellion against my daughter."

The last war had been all Rhaegar's fault. Maybe Robb's too. Now, would thousands more people could die because of her, and her alone? Because she fell in love? Would their family end up being hated more than the Targaryens, because of Robb and her?

"If we push too hard against the Faith, it cannot be discounted." Every tap of his shoes against the hard floor sounded ominous, as Sansa waited for her uncle to reveal the brutal truth. "Though, outright rebellion, probably not, even if the unrest in the city becomes more serious."

"I'll write my brother to call our banners," she heard her mother say, "help keep the peace in King's Landing if needed. And Lord Benjen..."

"Not the northerners," Petyr warned abruptly.

"Why not?"

"It may...it may be seen as an attack on the faith, by those who worship the Old Gods..." Sansa heard Petyr's breath catch, as if a new idea had dawned upon him. "Lord Nestor is visiting the city, he is a loyal man to Lord Robin, his honor beyond question. I can send your sister and her son too, on a ship to the Vale, under his protection, and there they can call the Knights of the Vale and prepare them for the worst...if it comes to that..."

"Dorne," her mother suddenly realized. "I hope it doesn't come to war...but...even if we can avoid the worst here...the relationship between the Crown and the Faith will be tenuous, for some time. We'll need new allies, especially if we lose allies like Mace Tyrell or, Gods...the entire Reach, Seven Hells knows they were already this close to marching on King's Landing with Viserys three years ago."

Sansa peeked her eyes through her blanket, seeing uncle Petyr stand up in excitement.

"You're right, Cat! The Dornish worship the Seven, but in a much more lenient manner..."

"We spoke of Arya," she heard her mother whisper, "and having her meet Prince Quentyn, see if a betrothal could be...agreeable..."

"It might have to be done regardless, agreeable or not..."

So she'd curse Arya too, in having to marry some stranger she did not want or love. Although, if Quentyn Martell was as nice as her younger brother, Sansa supposed her sister could do a lot worse in a husband.

"She can sail for Sunspear," Petyr suggested. "It's a risk, but we'll send several whitecloaks to escort her."

"Is it enough? Can we trust Prince Doran to not try something?"

"We have his son in Winterfell."

So her love for Lancel would now put both her sister _and_ the nice young Prince Trystane, along with so many more innocents, into harm's way.

"I don't trust it," her mother protested. "Not unless we send an army with her."

"Not an army," Petyr suggested, "but...a hundred or so men, perhaps, as an additional deterrence. We can't spare any of Stannis's...next to that, the Lannister presence in the capital is the most significant."

"And I...," she heard her mother hesitate, "Lord Tyrion is a clever man. And I do trust him...I _think_."

"You're right," Petyr agreed. "Good thinking, Cat. If there's an agreement to be made, he'd be well positioned to negotiate the terms. And were the Prince Doran to still harbor any ill intentions or grudges, I'd guess Tyrion Lannister would be quickest in unraveling them, before any of us. If he senses danger for the Princess Arya, we'll instruct them to send ravens, then sail back to King's Landing immediately."

"Will that cause a war with Dorne," Sansa asked, sneaking her head out from under her sheets, "if we flee like that..."

_If we flee like Robb did,_ she'd almost said. If she had one wish, Sansa would have the Gods take her now, because she could not bear the thought of yet another war, this one caused by herself. The Silent Sisters didn't sound like the worst thing, either, if she could step down...

_No, you don't want that. They'll keep you a prisoner in some tower, give you awful food, you won't be able to wear the clothes you like, or even sew the clothes you like to sew. Your hair, you'll have to wear like they tell you, plain and hidden. And you'll never see Ser Lancel again, you'd never get to love anyone, you'd never get to have children to hold..._

_You're a Queen, Sansa Stark. Stop being afraid, stop being a child, and act like a Queen._

"Let's worry about what's in front of us first," her mother replied uneasily.

"I thought it was the Queen shits, the Hand wipes," Arya said to her, when she visited her later that night. "Not the Queen's sister."

She'd brought her lemoncakes. Arya was the one who was wronged, who would now be punished for her crimes, yet Sansa still sat helplessly in her room, letting her younger sister be the one to comfort her.

"Uncle Petyr's been doing a lot of wiping already," Sansa said, feeling the words of apology rising, yet stuck in her throat. She forced them out. "I'm sorry Arya. I know you don't want to get married...not now, anyway. And Dorne is...well, I don't know what Dorne is, it's different, I suppose, than King's Landing. Or even Winterfell."

"Mother says it won't happen immediately," Arya responded dejectedly. She could not put off marriage forever, they both knew, whether to Quentyn Martell, or anyone else, much as Sansa had the feeling that if Arya could have it her way, she'd never marry anyone. "I'll have my Needle though. I can watch Tyrion's back for you."

"Will you refuse," Sansa asked, forcing a smile upon her face, "if you challenge Prince Quentyn to a duel and beat him?"

"Don't think there's any man I _can_ marry then, outside maybe one or two of your Queensguard."

Reaching her arms out, she took Arya in, and hugged her sister fiercely. There was little more time, they'd sail tomorrow, Lord Tyrion rounding their escort as they spoke. With all the Sparrows wandering the city, the Queen would not accompany her sister to the docks, which meant their last goodbye would be had by the gates of the Keep. But even that felt too public for Sansa, so she would to bid her sister farewell here, where it was just the two of them, damn the rest of the world.

"I've won one war once," Sansa joked knowingly. "If they bother you, if they threaten you, I'll lead my armies to the doors of Sunspear myself."

Her words prompted Arya to look at her sister in disbelief. Awaiting some fresh new insult from her sister, Sansa had not expected the next words which came out of her mouth.

"You had your fun. I'm glad for it. I just wished it was someone better."

"Better? _Who_?" Looking around nervously, she leaned in to whisper into her sister's ear. "I told you that Loras Tyrell is a...is a..._sword swallower!_ Remember?"

"I don't know," Arya shrugged. "Ser Balon?

"Ser Balon? He's...he's old!" Not that old, and Sansa adored him, he was her favorite of her Queensguard, and the kindest to her too. Not handsome like Loras or Lancel though.

"Better old and ugly than stupid."

"Lancel's not stupid!"

She swore her sister rolled her eyes at her.

"He was stupid enough to get caught, wasn't he?"

Sansa nodded, looking away.

_And so was I. Which meant I was stupid enough to trust him._

* * *

**Catelyn**

In a way, she'd lost both her daughters, one to the Throne, and now one to the farthest province on the continent, to a strange family she knew little about, save their treason. Catelyn Tully loved both her daughters, she loved all her children, yet she'd always found it puzzling, that Arya did not ever gossip or dream about fair lads and princes, not like Sansa, not like herself or Lysa or any other girl her age she'd known. The Gods curse them all, such an attitude just did not blend well with highborn women like herself, especially the daughter of a King.

The castle seemed quieter with Arya gone, though Catelyn wondered who was more restless, herself, or that man from Braavos Ned had sailed over the Narrow Sea, to teach her daughter how to swordfight, out of all things.

_"You're getting her hopes up," she'd argued with her husband at the time. "You'll make her actually believe she can be some knight or soldier, then she'll hate us even more when she has to marry and her new husband makes her give it all up!"_

But then Ned had died, and Catelyn did not fight it immediately afterwards, because it made Arya happy, and kept her mind away from tragedy. Then, she'd been too busy to stop it, having to help her other daughter and the Council run seven kingdoms. And because it made Arya happy, and because she'd lost so much of her family already, so all a mother wanted to keep her child happy. A bitter smile crept upon Catelyn's face. Perhaps it was for the better, this alliance of necessity, because Dorne may be the one place outside Bear Island where'd they'd tolerate her younger daughter's more unladylike inclinations.

She filled the days writing letters, not just to her brother, but all the lords and ladies sworn to them along the three forks of the Trident. At night, she wove her prayer wheels, and kept them close to her heart. Would it matter at all?

The Queen Dowager turned her head out the window, where the dimmer sun of Autumn threatened to set over the Great Sept of Baelor. Her ears were alert, awaiting the dreaded sound of the trumpets arriving from that direction, announcing the selection of a new High Septon whose first priority would be to persecute her sweet and innocent daughter. What would come after that, what she'd have to do...

She heard it first with her ears, then felt it after, the floors...the entire city, nay, all the known world shaking and trembling in rage. Then she saw it, a sight which would scar her the rest of her life, the horrible fire overtaking like a fiery tidal wave the spot where the Great Sept had stood just mere seconds earlier, the sickly colors blending on the horizon against the setting sun, leaving only dark shadows looming over the great temple and all the streets nearby, collapsing into themselves as if the Gods had already rendered due their judgment upon them all.


	15. The Accursed Queen

**Tyrion**

"First time at sea, Your Grace?"

The little princess nodded eagerly, turning her head away from him towards the bow of the ship, her eyes drifting from one corner of an endless sky to another. A fierce gale blasted a thick wave of water against their ship, rocking it severely enough to shake Tyrion onto the wooden floor of the deck, yet he watched the little girl clutching ever tightly her hands against the edge of the bow, seemingly unaffected by the torrents.

"You're taking better to this than my first time at sea. Or tenth, even. I remember, my father sailing Jaime and I to Fair Isle for a wedding. It was a spectacular event, they tell me, the young Lady Andrea Farman quite a beauty in those days, even more so than her sister Jeyne...Jeyne was a good friend of Cersei's you see..." Realizing that he was rambling, perhaps out of his own embarrassment at his clumsiness before the Princess, Tyrion stopped himself, dusted off his shoulders, and took a good swig of his wine. "My point is, I remember none of that, the wedding, or the beautiful bride, that is something I _would've_ noticed then, even at my young age...but no, I all can think of, even now, is never leaving my room below-deck once, on the trip there, or back."

"It's a good thing my sister didn't appoint you her Master of Ship then," Arya said to him, regarding him with regal curiosity.

"Yes, that it may be."

They both looked away, once mention of their Queen reached their lips, and Tyrion recognized the apprehension they both felt for the increasingly fragile reign of Sansa I Stark.

"Do you think she'll be alright? My sister?"

Tyrion grimaced. For days they'd sailed within sight of the shore, though barely, their ship drifting through what would appear to be a dense fog, except it wasn't fog, not with the stench of burning which accompanied the smoke. He still wasn't entirely sure he fully believed in the Gods yet, the Seven, the northern tree Gods, or any more of the exotic eastern teachings stretching from Volantis to Asshai. But Tyrion did understand the minds of those who did believe, who did not have the benefit of books, of history, of maesters teaching them how to think, and minds capable of understanding how to apply the knowledge of the maesters, or in discerning the truth when it was the maesters and Septon who spoke falsely.

_They'll think the fires a sign of the Gods, of their disfavor towards the Queen. If the dragons are dead, then the Gods will send their message of fire and blood all the same._

That was nonsense, of course. They all suspected, he and Baelish and Stannis, the more natural, and sinister, origins of the fires. But until they had proof...

"I won't mince words," he said. "Things are a bit, difficult right now...the sheer timing of it. Had the High Septon not passed, and the Sparrows not accompanied the faith into the city..."

It was all the worst possible coinciding of events he could ever imagine for his Queen, and now, his mind clearer after days away from the nest of vipers inhabiting the capital and its tallest Keep, it all made him wonder, and it all made him further worried about this expedition, because if Rhaegar, and the Spider who'd advised him, had never truly given up their war, then what of Doran Martell?

"...but the Council knows what they're doing, they'll get her through this, I do believe. The Crown is not without support...though the loyalties of the two southern kingdoms I'm not without concern for, Houses Stark, Arryn, Baratheon, Lannister, and Tully all stand together behind their Queen...that's more than your father had, you know, when he won the rebellion."

But did he believe that?

_"It'll pass," he'd counselled the poor girl the morning before they sailed. "Everything passes."_

_"Not death." Something the little Queen knew far too well already. Tyrion pitied her, but pity couldn't run a kingdom, or help a Queen keep her crown._

_"No, but this isn't death. It's foolishness. Perhaps you ought count its blessings, that it was found out now, and not after your marriage."_

_The girl sighed. "You were there, when I pledged myself to Viserys. I wish...I don't blame you, Lord Tyrion, but..."_

_"You regret it," Tyrion said. "I understand. It's a cruel irony, to be Queen, to have power, name, glory, a place etched in all the maesters' scrolls already, yet...the songs they'll sing of you, aren't the songs your heart truly desires, are they?"_

_She did not answer, because it hadn't been a question meant for her to answer._

_"Some of the Targaryen kings got to choose whom they loved. A few lucky ones even married them."_

_"But the ones who had to marry out of duty, they had their mistresses, didn't they? They'd marry whomever their parents told them to marry, yet still get to be with the ones they love."_

_Tyrion looked around nervously. This was not the conversation he should be having with the girl. But her father was dead, and her mother, well, Queen she may be, Sansa Stark was still young enough to fear her mother's judgment, a ferocious thing indeed, to confide in her such...shameful thoughts. Which meant his role here was not to judge her, but not to provide just comfort either, in the end that was still the job of her family...but to provide counsel, as best, but also as compassionately, as he was capable of._

_"Mistresses, yes. Some men keep one mistress, the Bloodraven for example, and love them all their lives. A king though...it can prove difficult for a King to remember the purity of love, when all they see day after day is an endless line women who would feign love for them, not for who they are, but because of their crown."_

_A sober silence from the girl, as she pondered the gravity of his words._

_"Is that Ser Lancel, Lord Tyrion? Do you think he truly loves me, or..."_

_"I don't know. I promise you though, I will find out, next time I see the boy." He'd do a lot more than that, Tyrion swore. "It doesn't matter, even if his feelings are true, you need to forget him."_

_"I understand." The words came out as a whimper._

_"Listen, Sansa," he said, knowing that he could regret these words, but he didn't have the heart not to say them. Besides, they'd sheltered her enough, hadn't they? The Queen was mere moons away from ruling in her own right, yet she still knew so little about the harshest truths of the world, the lessons in how to rule and carry power not to be found in books or the whispers of maesters...one the many ways that Tyrion saw that they'd already failed her. "You deserve more than Viserys Targaryen, that's the truth, and you know that. That's why your heart calls out for more. Perhaps my cousin does truly love you. Perhaps your love for Lancel is a childish affection, or perhaps it's true. Sometimes one is not much different than other, and most may never know the difference."_

_Who was he to talk of love, really? Just what did he know about the subject, except the love of the whores for his gold?_

_"But a man like Lancel..."_

_"What about him," the Queen asked anxiously._

_"You're the Queen, Sansa Stark, First of your Name. You've seen war, you've led in battle, you know what it is for men to die for you."_

_Sansa nodded silently, and Tyrion understood that she wanted speak little more of said battle._

_"Great knights like Barristan Selmy and Arthur Dayne will die for their King. Yet, you'd rather they live, because they can't swing a sword against your enemies once they're dead. Lord Stannis, he'd die for you, but you'd rather him live, because his council and his leadership is unmatched, and he serves you better by your side, than encased in a mausoleum in Storm's End. Even myself, I'd die for my Queen too...but I'd humbly believe that I'd also be of better use to you alive. But a man like Lancel Lannister...well, be he a knight, the Lord of Casterly Rock or a Prince of Dorne, a man like him serves absolutely no purpose to his Queen, except to die for her. Love whom you may love, Your Grace, and I do fervently wish that you will come to love another, apart from Viserys. And when you find love for another someday, find it with someone trustworthy, who can keep your secrets, who can serve you, make you a better Queen, a better woman. But for a man like Lancel, yes, he's decent face, a better name...but...forget your love...don't waste any more feeling on someone who'd cause more harm to you alive than dead."_

_Perhaps they were the least comforting words ever spoken from a councilor to a Queen or a King. Yet...despite her sadness, something in the Sansa Stark's eyes told him that deep down, she knew this, she knew that Lancel had been unworthy of her, yet she just hadn't been able to help her childish urges._

_"I should ask, before I trust someone, shouldn't I?" Tyrion nodded. "I should ask mother's opinion, or Arya's, or Lord Baelish's, I need to better trust the people around me, because...because before me the others, they'd...wear a different face to me, because I'm the Queen."_

_"It takes time," Tyrion assured her, "learning to know how to read a man, or a woman, knowing what they want, what they truly want, knowing who they truly are. Some never acquire the skill, but I know you will some day, my Queen, because you are better than most men, I see it, I know it. And only when you understand the depths of their hearts, can you then trust them, with your life, with your crown, with their counsel...or with your heart, your secrets."_

_"Thank you, Lord Tyrion," the girl dipped her head shyly at him. "Your advice is always...immeasurable. I will miss it, while you are away."_

_"It is a privilege, Your Grace," Tyrion said kneeling,"the highest honor which can be bestowed upon a man, or Half Man." He was about to leave her chambers and pass under the wary eyes of a chastened Balon Swann, but then, he stopped, knowing that uncomfortable as he was, unsure as he was, it would gnaw away at him, unless he confessed to her._

_"Queen Sansa?"_

_"Lord Tyrion?"_

_"You trust Lord Baelish, don't you?"_

_"I do," she replied, confused. Then she narrowed her eyes at him. "You don't?"_

_He'd expected careful displeasure from the Queen at first, accusations, that he was lying, that he was jealous of Littlefinger, and so forth. But that was how his sister would react, not this sweet girl. Yet, Tyrion knew that he still had to tread carefully._

_"It's not that I don't...but...three years on the Small Council with him...Lord Baelish's work has been exemplary, Your Grace, and he's served the crown well, but...but..."_

_"You don't know him? You don't know his heart?"_

_An inadvertent smile, the girl learned well, so long as they knew the right lessons to teach her. "I'll tell you what I want, Your Grace. My father has always hated me, from the day he was born. He'd tell me with his eyes, oh, sometimes he'd tell with his very mouth that...I'm a disgrace to our family, to our name. Our name was always what was most important to Tywin Lannister, and he'd spent a lifetime carving it in gold, serving justice to our enemies...serving peace and prosperity to the realm. Yet, in one foul night, he'd disgraced House Lannister so permanently, wiping away all the good work he'd done serving King Aerys, presiding over the Westerlands. So look at me, Your Grace...the Imp, the Half Man, the twice disgraced Freak of Casterly Rock, disgraced by my very existence, and disgraced by the evils committed by my father. Believe it or not, Your Grace...my father probably doesn't, but I'd like to change that, I'd like...I'd like to spit upon my father's face, and have him know, before he passes, that it was his hated freak of a son who'd restored House Lannister's name and reputation before the Seven Kingdoms._

_I serve you, Your Grace, because it's my duty, because I want to. Yet, I also serve you, because I'm selfish, and by serving you, I can fulfill my own self-serving desires. Every man is selfish, Your Grace. It may not be all to them, but it's part and parcel of every soul, every heart, man or woman, alive or dead, from the moment we leave our mother's womb, our first thoughts in this world are nothing, but pure want. Even the honorable ones like your father, or Arthur Dayne...honor has its own appetite too, to feed it to satiate your soul's sense of righteousness...there's a selfishness in that too."_

_The girl nodded, trembling, and Tyrion worried whether he'd overstepped his boundaries._

_"And Lord Baelish," she asked, somehow retaining her remarkable composure._

_"He's selfless. He's loyal. He's true to the crown. Yet...three years knowing the man, serving by his side, and I still haven't figured out what the man truly wants yet."_

"Somewhere across these waters is Rhaegar." The girl's eyes drifted outwards again. "Maybe we should sail for Pentos first, and I'll kill him myself."

"Careful, Your Grace. There is peace between the two crowns, and once your sister marries Viserys, Rhaegar Targaryen be your goodbrother."

And just how much of that peace did he still believe, with the entire country cast under the fires of the dragon?

* * *

**Catelyn**

Most of her life since the day Catelyn Tully spoke her vows facing the young Lord of Winterfell in the Sept of Riverrun, the Queen and then Queen Dowager had wondered about the brash young Robert Baratheon, the Hammer of the South, the Lord of the Stormlands, Scourge of the Targaryens, and martyr for the Rebellion. Had Robert lived, all the lords, including her late father, would have been prepared to name him king, thanks to his distant line of blood tied to the dragons, and Catelyn would have settled for a quiet and cold life in the freezing north.

As Queen to her husband Eddard, she'd risen higher than any Tully had ever risen in the history of the Seven Kingdoms. As a young girl, she'd been simultaneously excited yet terrified for such a prospect, though the moment Robb was born she'd been more concerned for her child than for power, or reputation, or glory. Yet in the back of her mind the young Queen had shamefully and inadvertently thanked the Gods for Robert's death, because that one death had kept her family south, that one death had kept them all close to her father, it'd kept her from having to travel to a cold and strange land and live a permanent stranger amongst a wild and bearded people, little different than the wildings across the Wall, she'd once thought.

Now, nine and ten years after the Rebellion, as she watched the wretched throne swallow up entirely the soul of her sweet and beautiful daughter, the Dowager Queen Catelyn of House Tully wondered whether the Gods had merely postponed their just and proper punishment for her greed, for her secret glee in the suffering of another.

"The Boltons," Stannis asked, confused. "Why would they destroy Baelor's Sept?"

"It depends," Petyr answered, "on what story we want to tell the people."

The Queen spoke. "Why wouldn't we tell the people the truth?"

Sansa had insisted on attending this Small Council meeting, her first since Rhaegar's Rebellion. They'd delayed it long enough, too long because soon, her daughter would have to rule in her own right. Yet they'd tried to protect her, Catelyn had seen the toll the war had taken on her eldest surviving child, she'd just wanted Sansa the ability to enjoy what remained of her childhood, foolishly thinking that time to learn was aplenty with the long peace safely in hand.

"Because both the truth and the lie will condemn the Boltons all the same, but the truth will destroy the Crown, whereas a lie may save it yet."

"Speak, Baelish," Stannis grumbled unhappily, "enough of these riddles."

"We've interrogated Roose and his entire household in the Black Cells," Petyr began, subtly glossing over the process as if brute torture could be polished in polite words for the young Queen to digest. "Their Maester, a man named Wolkan, has confessed to helping the new Master of Whispers with this foulest deed. If we tell the people the truth, that Roose Bolton and his bastard, proud Northmen both, aimed to prove their loyalty and devotion to House Stark by excessively eliminating their enemies in the Faith, it would ruin the peace, it could spread riots near and far."

"That's the truth of it," Lord Kevan asked, averting his eyes from the two women in the room.

"They acted alone, I can assure you," Petyr continued. "Doubtlessly the Queen had no idea the deviousness of her subjects, along with any in this Small Council."

"I understand the necessity for the lie," Stannis agreed, Catelyn silently thankful that she did not have to be the one to say the words. "What's the lie you suggest then, Littlefinger?"

"It would be difficult for the Crown to dismiss and distance itself from an act committed out of loyalty, out of a misguided sense of duty," Petyr lectured. From the window smoke from the fires billowed in, yet another ominous portent seemingly from the Gods themselves. "But an act committed in the name of a more outlandish and fanatical cause would be easier for the kingdoms to swallow."

"That is," Catelyn asked impatiently.

"The Old Gods. House Bolton worshipped the old ways, of flaying, of the tree Gods of the North. They hated the faith, and upon Lord Roose's appointment to the Small Council, they aimed to spark a war of religion with this vile act, in an attempt to influence the Crown in instituting worship of the Old Gods in all Seven Kingdoms."

"But that would be a lie," Sansa objected. "I…the Queen has lied enough to cause all this. Wouldn't more lies would further degrade the reputation of the Crown?" Despite all she'd been through, despite the embarrassment and the suffering and the torture the girl had undergone, Catelyn thought proudly that, at this most dire moment in her reign, Sansa, adorned in her gold emblazoned pink dress, looked as regal and as powerful a true Queen as she'd ever seen her.

"The Boltons will die regardless. You believe in the Seven, Your Grace, so does your mother, so does every man on your Small Council. It would be far more difficult for you to condemn these vile acts were they done in your name, even unknowingly, rather than committed for a religion you've _never_ kept to."

Though she was a little girl whose power lay in their hands, all the Council naturally looked towards the Queen now that she was present, deferring to her naturally, though not because of fealty, Catelyn thought, but in order to wash their own hands of a difficult and terrible decision. Naturally enough, Sansa then looked first to her mother.

"Are we sure of their guilt," the Queen Dowager questioned Petyr.

"We have all their confessions."

There _was_ a difference. She knew this, men like Stannis grasped it, even if Sansa didn't. But with so many disasters all converging on them all at once, as if it was indeed the will of the Gods that she and her daughter and family suffer, it came down to a matter of sheer expediency.

"Your Grace," Catelyn decided, choosing her words carefully. "The Crown must be protected, its reputation of the utmost importance before all else. Lord Baelish is right, the Boltons are condemned men. They are also new to the city, and the Council. Perhaps it's a...favor, from the Gods, that they were the ones who perpetrated this crime, rather than, say, Lords Stannis or Tyrion or Baelish...who've served you and your father for longer, and whose complicity would further tarnish the Crown."

Sansa was clever. Catelyn could only hope that she was not clever enough to further question just how these confessions were obtained from Roose Bolton and his bastard and household in the deepest cells of the dungeons. Watching her daughter turn her eyes back to Petyr, Catelyn couldn't tell exactly.

"Will the High Sparrow be present at the executions?"

"I'd imagine the Sparrows will comprise a rather vocal section of the crowd," Petyr replied apprehensively.

"The man probably considers himself the High Septon of all Seven Kingdoms by now," Stannis muttered unhappily. "Had he access or knowledge to Aerys's underground tunnels, I wouldn't surprised if he was the one responsible for the Sept."

They all looked around the table uneasily. The Lord of Storm's End had a point, though such an accusation would be difficult, nearly impossible, really, to prove, or enforce. Mace Tyrell raised his head unhappily.

"Randyll Tarly and his banners are patrolling the marches, I think they're within a few days of the capital." He looked at Catelyn, then Petyr. "He'd get here before Lord Edmure, or the Knights of the Vale. If we believe there could be...disorder, to the city, Lord Randyll would be able to...do what would be necessary."

Catelyn did not believe Mace Tyrell believed in the Seven as fervently as she did. Nor was he an unbeliever like Stannis, or Petyr, as she suspected of her old friend, but something more akin to a man like Tyrion, who kept to the New Gods, but in a rather casual manner. But it was very well known that many of his vassals in the Reach, including the Hightowers of Oldtown, were not just devoted, but took pride in being seen as the most devout. Just how happy would they be, if Mace ordered the Tarly's to crush the Sparrows? Not that Catelyn trusted the Tarly's, or the Tyrells for the matter, because Catelyn understood that it was exactly those who were unsteady in their own faith, who yet needed to impress upon others their piety, who would be tempted to side with the fanatics when it came to the stupid, but ultimately harmless indiscretions of her daughter. Then, it was that word again, expediency, in which name she would have to rely upon such unreliable allies, though they could be countered once Edmure arrived with his men.

"Write him," Catelyn agreed reluctantly. "Tell him to be ready to march to the capital, if we do deem it necessary."

She would have thought that Sansa hadn't been paying attention. When she spoke, Catelyn realized instead that her daughter had been deep in thought.

"The Boltons will be executed by the ruins of the Sept," she said, with all the authority of a Queen Regnant, in her majority and all the power of her Throne residing within her name. "I will attend, and before the High Sparrow himself, plead forgiveness for my sins and for my crimes."

Her first statement hadn't been unexpected, not by Catelyn at least, because Ned Stark was her father, and she was a girl...nay woman, who understood fully the meaning of the word duty. But her second suggestion left them aghast.

"Your Grace," Stannis spoke first, interrupting Petyr, "you can't give in to these fanatics."

"You won't be able to please a man like this," Petyr agreed. "What if he demands you give up your very crown?"

"Then I'll refuse him," the Queen replied calmly, strength billowing through her voice. "If the Sparrows are unreasonable, the people will see the truth, they'll see that I tried to make peace, that their queen wished for compromise, that she is faithful, and freely came before them in good faith, and that the Sparrows are the ones who are being unreasonable." She turned calmly to Mace Tyrell. "In which case, Lord Mace, Lord Stannis...feel free to order your men to enforce peace in the city. With any luck, there will be less who would riot or disturb the peace, on behalf of the Sparrows."

"Your Grace," Petyr replied, moved, but firm in his stance. "I understand your wish for peace. Come the day they write the story of your reign in the Citadel, perhaps you'll be remembered as Sansa the Peacemaker. But I beg of you, do it from the safety of the Keep. The city is dangerous, in a state of unrest, the people are unhappy, nearly stirred to rebellion by the rhetoric of this High Sparrow. Your Queensguard is depleted, and however many men we bring with us to the ruins...they outnumber us, _they_ will _always_ outnumber _us_."

"Perhaps," Sansa said, her tone stubborn in a way that reminded Catelyn of her late husband. Of herself even, others may say, with some truth to it. "But the Queen believes she needs to see her people, speak to her people. If you disagree, Lord Baelish, if the Council disagrees and overrules me, then say it, and I beg say it openly."

Therein lay the challenge from the Queen. Catelyn would have voiced her disagreement, but she bit her lips, recognizing the time was approaching for her daughter to learn and practice how to assert her authority, and she imagined there would be plenty more days in the future where she'd have to quietly and obediently disagree with her daughter.

"Will the Queen be safe," she asked Ser Courtnay instead, suppressing the dread she felt in her very gut, a mother's instinctual fear for what could happen to her daughter if she exposed herself before all the city at this most perilous time.

"We're short a few," the Lord Commander replied, "but with the Baratheon and Lannister men standing guard, we should be able to fend off the Sparrows."

"And the mob," Stannis added, "should it become a mob."

"Your Grace is intent on this," Petyr asked, nay, begged Sansa one last time, but her daughter only nodded coldly.

"The Queen can no longer hide."

"Very well," he replied, unwilling to fight her further. The Queen's Hand flipped to another scroll. "There are these rumors spreading from the Citadel regarding the discovery of another late High Septon's diary, written in the days before Robert's Rebellion broke out...

* * *

**Sansa**

The crowds that cheered her immediately after she'd won the war was a completely different one which greeted her below a hill topped with crumbling burnt stone. Sansa shuddered, thinking about all the devoted and kind men of the Faith whose bodies still lay buried and rotting underneath the wreckage, and would be for some time. There seemed no safe place for her to place her eyes, the sound of blades cracking and heads tumbling in one direction, the oddly triumphant and gloating smirk from the ragged man they called the High Septon from beside her, or the sullen, angry glares of the same peopled who'd loved her and cheered her now casting judgment and blame on her from every direction. Before, she'd stood above them upon the steps of the Sept. Now, standing at their level, the men and women of King's Landing seemed to tower over her, like a wave about to crash against her.

Nor was her sight her only sense which lay under assault. The smell of burning permeated the air, not just the sickening, diseased stench of the vile concoctions the Boltons used to destroy the Sept, but the smoke from the fires across the river, burning along the Blackwater itself, permeating and blurring every street of the city, from Keep itself to Flea Bottom, the ruins of the Sept to the ruins of the Dragonpit. She heard the whispers sitting in her wheelhouse earlier, that she herself was accursed, that the Gods were punishing the nature and the very city itself for her crimes.

Finally, they'd finished executing all of the Boltons and their household, even their Septa, who'd confessed to betraying the Faith for the Northern Gods. Taking a deep breath, Sansa looked first to her mother and Lord Baelish, then the High Sparrow man, before she started to speak.

"Justice has been done. Yet justice delayed is in itself an injustice. Vile men chose to commit the vilest blasphemy. In their attempt to destroy the Faith, they've massacred not just pious and good men devoted to the Gods, but also hundreds of innocent men, women, and children who had the misfortune of living or walking in the wrong place on that day. But the Faith is strong, it will recover despite this most horrible wound inflicted upon it, as will the people of King's Landing, who will rise above and rebuild.

Yet if it were vile men who committed the deed, the blame cannot fall wholly upon their heads. The Queen, the Crown, are institutions set by the Gods atop the realms of man. If the Crown strays from the paths set forth by the Gods, then so she should expect her own subjects to stray further. I confess then, that I have sinned, that my examples of unfaithfulness, unholiness, have infected the hearts of my subjects. The blood of all who died run just as much upon my own hands, as they do upon the Boltons. It is a lesson I will never forget. I cannot bring back the lives of those who died. I can only promise my repentance, beg for the forgiveness of Gods and men, and vow that as your Queen, I will lead this country as the Gods intended me to, with chastity, with virtue, and in accordance with the tenets of the Seven."

For once, the words were entirely her own, though her mother and Lord Petyr had read them beforehand, making few alterations this time. It seemed odd that her Hand would have opposed her wish to speak to the people, coming so soon after Lord Tyrion's vague warning regarding the man. Tyrion didn't know what Lord Baelish wanted. Sansa figured it was just to serve her house, her mother, while advancing his own family name, no different than any of the other lords who served her. Yet...wasn't House Baelish merely a house of one? Even Tyrion had spoke of betrothals to various houses in the Westerlands, yet Lord Petyr had never shown any interest or inclination to marry, and so continue the legacy of his family. In opposing him on one occurrence and insisting upon her own way, Sansa was no closer to finding out what Petyr Baelish truly wanted. But perhaps it was a start.

Or, Petyr could just be a selfless man dedicated to serving her. Which meant that Tyrion was the one who was lying, and therefore untrustworthy.

The troubled Queen turned her head at the High Sparrow, his eyes cast down upon her, as if he pitied her plight, though Sansa could not begin to hope that her words could have moved this man, given all they'd told her about him. Her brother had started a war, out of love, or lust, or whatever it was, and her aunt Lyanna...could it be that Rhaegar's lies had been the truth after all, that her aunt had also helped start a war by falling in love, marrying a man who was already married to another? The High Sparrow was certain to condemn her, Sansa thought, and she could only hope that she would be the one sinful Stark to buck the trend, that somehow the people could listen to both their testimonies and remember the love they'd once had for her.

"I was tending to the burns of a dying man this morning," the High Sparrow began, in his aching, croaking voice. "He suffers now in pain, he suffered all his life a beggar on these very streets, yet his heart never strayed from his faith in the Seven. He was a blind man. He'd never read the Seven Pointed Star, though he'd heard verses read to him before, and memorized what he could of what his ears have heard all his life. His faith is commendable, yet his knowledge of the sacred words incomplete. He asked me, 'are the seven Gods truly one, or is it one God with seven heads?' A common question, though as I counselled him, I counsel all of you now, the answer, as with all answers, lie within the text of the Seven Pointed Star."

His wrinkled hands held high in the air a ragged edition of the tome.

"'_To the eyes of man, the Gods are one. To the eyes of the Gods, who sit across each other upon the high table, the Father at its head, the Mother by his side, and their children below them, from Maiden to Crone, from Warrior to Stranger..._'"

A pause, as if to let his words sink into the crowd, though Sansa found it strange that he'd not yet found the urge to condemn her personally yet.

"'_The Father at its head_,'" he repeated, voice rising, approaching a shout, "the Mother, the womenfolk, the children below the Father, because the Gods are not equal, the women and the children, even the mighty Warrior, sit subservient to the Father, who leads the heavens. And what is the Crown in this sinful world, except a meager but necessary attempt to imitate the Godly nature of those above us? How can we expect then, the blessings of the Gods, when we allow a woman...nay, a mere girl, a child, to sit in the seat which watches above us, a flippant mockery of the picture painted for us in the Seven Pointed Star?

It matters not to the Gods what house or sigil sits upon the Throne, be it Wolf, or Trout, or Dragon. All that matters is that the man who rules this country is a man of the Faith, who keeps to the messages of the Seven, not the profane gods of the woods who have been proven false thousands of years ago. And yes, many in the House of the Dragon were sinful, evil creatures, who committed the worst heresies despised by the Gods...incest, adultery, patricide and fratricide...yet, a Targaryen king who sits in the Throne is sinful only if he _chooses_ to be sinful. A woman who sits on the throne is sinful by her very _existence_, by her very act in presuming to usurp the seat of the Father, so how can we expect her to be chaste and faithful in other manners, to rule this country in a way which pleases the Gods, in keeping to the principles of the Seven Pointed Star?

Look around you, my beloved people. Fires consume this country, fires threaten the Queen's capital itself, from without and within, the fires, with the aid of the profane brethren of Sansa Stark of _Winterfell_, have destroyed very nearly the entire institution in which the Gods carry out their good work in this world. Are we surprised, from original sin, breeds more sin, more curses, more suffering which will continue to plague our unlucky existence? That the great _whore_, who poses as the Maiden, further sullies..."

"That's enough," Stannis shouted, a dozen of his knights suddenly standing in formation, face to face against the High Sparrow, who stood against them fearlessly, inspiring with his blind courage the many dozens of robed Sparrows, seemingly willing to wage war in the very city.

"Come, Your Grace," Ser Balon said, taking her by the shoulders to lead her back to the wheelhouse. Craning her head at the worsening situation, she saw Lannister men in their recognizable helmets gathering in the spot where she and her mother stood just moments before, and the grumbles in the crowd surrounding her at the terrible sight of armored men ready to make war against the unarmed Sparrows.

"Please," she shouted even as she was being led away. "I beg of you all, let's make peace..."

"Are you going to massacre us," the High Sparrow taunted in Stannis's direction, "and thus wipe out the only men left remaining who speak for the Gods in this sinful realm?"

A scream, a robe of a Sparrow bloodied by an arrow through his heart, falling onto the ground next to the headless bodies of the Boltons.

"Back," Stannis screamed, "hold!"

The crowd grew restless, and Sansa began hearing various shouts and curses emerging from around her, from voices belonging to men and women and children alike.

_"Sinners!"_

_"Cursed be they, who murder good men o'the Faith!"_

_"Cast them out, these tree worshippers!"_

_"All hail Sansa the Accursed, may her reign be short, to save this city!"_

_"Fuck the Queen, and cursed be any man who bends th'knee t'her, an' raises a sword fer her!"_

"Hurry," Ser Balon urged, as another look back saw the waves of the crowd approaching her soldiers in unison, with a growing determination as the individual screams and curses now blended together in an ominous and murderous hum. Looking forward, her wheelhouse seemed so far away now, and her legs felt weak even as she ran towards the vehicle, several of her Queensguard and more of Stannis's knights trying to keep up with her on either side, doing their best to shield the crowd from their Queen with their bodies.

"Back, back," they threatened with their swords and shield raised. A burst of pain on her arm, and Sansa screamed, then saw in relief that it had only been a piece of rotting fruit which struck her, from somewhere back in the crowd. Thankfully, she'd reached the wheelhouse, running inside just as she heard another horrid splat land where she'd been standing last.

"Get in," she heard her mother shout, steps away along with Lord Petyr.

"Hurry, mother," Sansa screamed, seeing with her own eyes the line of knights buckling as they continued to hold back the mob. Blood splattered onto the ground, as her men began stabbing and striking those who at the front of the mob who were struggling frantically, threatening to break through, yet the blood shed seemed to infuriate the people even more.

Then, she saw it happen. A large, dark object, its deadly arc emerging from somewhere near the front of the crowd, whistling clunkily and ungracefully through the air, falling, lurching in their direction.

"Mother! Uncle Petyr! Watch out!"

They turned, both of them, along with Ser Boros Blount, the whitecloak protecting the Queen Dowager, who watched dumbly as the rock pummeled its sharp end directly into the side of her mother's head, her body collapsing instantly into the arms of Ser Boros.

"Cat," Petyr screamed, and the two men lifted her limp body into the now crowded wheelhouse.

"Mother!" Sansa leaned forward, praying to all the Gods that her mother was not too badly hurt, grabbing her hand as they straddled her over the laps of Ser Balon and Lord Baelish, sitting across from their Queen.

For a second, she could see the bloody wreck on the side of her mother's head, behind her right eye, before Ser Balon cut off a piece of his cloak, pressing it against the wound, trying to staunch the awful rush of blood emerging from it. But it was too late. Sansa could feel the touch of her mother's hand growing cold in her own, and see lifeless eyes gazing at her daughter in everlasting horror.

* * *

**Lewyn**

"Was that part of your plan," the King asked the Spider angrily. "Destroying the Sept?"

"They're saying hundreds, perhaps even thousands, were killed," Lewyn said accusingly, "Septons and smallfolk alike."

"I promise you," the Spider replied, a hint of desperation in his voice, "I had assurances from our friend in King's Landing that preparations would be made for the restoration of Your Grace's crown. I trusted he would have the matter handled, but...I did not know, truly, the horrible _extent_ he would go to make it happen."

Ser Lewyn watched the King take in Varys's words, and wondered whether Rhaegar would now order him to execute the man, despite his pleas of ignorance. Part of him wished for such an order. Rhaegar would not be able to wage his wars, whether in the open, or in the shadows, without the help of his Spider, and Lewyn could hope that an impulsive decision made in the heat of the moment now would end with finality this foolish business.

But the King's demeanor calmed, and when he spoke, he did so quietly, firmly.

"He will be punished for his crimes, once I sit on the Iron Throne."

Closing his eyes, the Spider bowed obediently, and Lewyn wondered just how grateful the man was for this act of mercy. He'd confided in Lewyn before, that he only wished to help the people, and that he truly believed in Rhaegar, that their King was the man best fit to lead the seven kingdoms. Did he feel any guilt now, in having failed so horribly the same people he'd claimed he was protecting?

"We are running out of time. Sansa Stark will soon reach her majority. We ought make preparations, Your Grace. How soon can we set sail?"

"Within a fortnight," Lewyn answered, when Rhaegar turned his purple eyes at him.

"Very well," Rhaegar proclaimed regally. "The hour is finally approaching. Let us all be ready when it comes."

There was a shadow of triumph in his voice, and Lewyn wondered whether His Grace had already forgotten about the blood of hundreds of innocents that had been shed once again in his name, to join the ever growing list of souls sacrificed for the cause of Fire and Blood, so as to sate that Red Woman's fury.


	16. The Last of the Starks

**Sansa**

The nights were colder than before. Winter was coming, and she was far from prepared. The pack had been torn apart, picked off one by one before her very eyes. The castle she grew up in was one filled with strangers now. Where once her mother and father and Robb and grandpapa and Jon Arryn roamed the halls, knowing what was best for her, for their family, there was only Bran and Rickon, who were younger than her, and depended upon her in the same way she'd depended all who'd been ripped away from their pack. Then there was Lord Petyr, whom Lord Tyrion did not entirely trust, yet the man's eyes had been swollen with grief ever since that horrible day in the riots. Even though he did not weep openly, Sansa saw the way his chest heaved, as the flames consumed what little she had left of her mother, of both her parents, a King and Queen whose reigns had been far too brief. She could only hope that they were together now, with Robb, that they were happy, and that they could all watch over her, and her younger siblings, in a way she could not, throne or no throne.

_Yet just how well did father and Robb watch over us, watch over mother? Maybe it's all lies, maybe the heavens are false, and so are the Gods...maybe there's nothing after death._

Where could her mother's sweet soul be then, could the gentle spirit of Queen Catelyn Tully, born of Riverrun, who loved and worshiped the Gods more than anyone Sansa knew, including the High Sparrow, really be cast and consigned out into nothingness? Sansa could only hope, she could only hold deeply her faith that it was not so.

"What will happen to the boat," Rickon asked innocently, her youngest brother cradled tightly under her arms, as if she were his mother now.

"The boat will burn too," Sansa replied, with more confidence than she'd had. "The ashes will fall into the sea, and mother's soul will be free to soar over all the rivers and waters of this realm."

It was only they, and Lord Petyr, and Ser Balon, who'd shot the flaming arrow onto the pyre, thankfully in one attempt, standing by a small cove at the end of one of the many secret tunnels under the Keep. Catelyn Tully deserved better than this. A former Queen of the Seven Kingdoms deserved more than this. A _mother_ deserved more than this, yet this was the only ceremony Sansa could give her, with the city completely broken down and the rioters and mobs roaming freely through all the streets outside the walls of the Keep.

"I'll miss you, Cat," she heard Petyr whisper next to her. "I never thought...it'd end this way. I failed you, in the end. For that, I'm truly sorry."

That was what he wanted, Sansa suddenly realized. Of course she knew the stories of how her Hand, when he was a young boy, had challenged Brandon Stark for her mother's hand in marriage. It was a fancy which had passed through the sands of time, mother told her, when Sansa had asked about it. She'd believed her, but Sansa recognized now that her mother was either lying to her, or lying to herself. Tyrion, however, hadn't been lying, he just never understood that Petyr Baelish never fell out of love with Queen Catelyn, the only true Queen in his eyes. Petyr Baelish served her father, then her own crown, so faithfully, so as to express his love, his devotion, his truest fealty and chivalry, to the woman whom he'd always loved...and to a woman who could never love him back. Especially not now.

So as she wept for her mother, she wept for Uncle Petyr too, who'd loved and suffered in silence, whose love may never be sung upon the lips of the fair maidens in the seven kingdoms he'd held together, for the sake of his love.

"I heard the riots are getting better," Bran said. He was growing fast, almost as tall as herself now.

"The arrival of the Tarly's should settle things down," Sansa said, her left hand clasped with her brother's. Did Arya know already? It wasn't right, that she wasn't here, that she would have to find out of their mother's death, caused by her own stupidity and endless failures, from a raven in a strange country amongst a stranger people. "Lord Renly is marching too, from Storm's End. He'll take command of the Baratheon hosts once he arrives."

Many of the Westerland and Stormland soldiers died in the melee which ensued after the High Sparrow's speech, a good number of them shielding her wheelhouse on its rocky way back to the Keep, the one they'd all shared aghast in solemn silence, Sansa, Petyr, Ser Balon, and the bloodied body of her mother, from whom Sansa could never avert her eyes, a vision which still plagued her sleep every night. Many more survived, enough to patrol the streets in the days since the riot, keeping certain sections of the city at peace, but they could not be everywhere, at once. As Uncle Petyr had said to her, _they_ outnumbered them, _they_ always will. Yet Sansa had not listened, and her mother, her younger siblings, would pay the price of yet another one of her mistakes.

But Stannis Baratheon was not one of the men who'd survived the battle. They kept his body in the dungeons now, next to where her mother lay for several days. Renly Baratheon would come to the capital and claim it, taking Stannis's remains back to Storm's End along with his daughter, a girl younger than her, who was now the castle's Lady. Then Sansa would be even more alone in the Keep where she'd grown up.

"I'd sent a ship here," Petyr said, his every word still choked with grief, "years ago, when Viserys attacked the city. If the worst did happen, and King's Landing fell, this is where Ser Balon was instructed to bring you, and all your family."

"You think we may have to flee the city now," Bran asked. He was growing the more clever by the day, and Sansa wondered if grandpapa's ghost somewhere close or far now rued his decision to put that crown on her head instead of his.

"We don't necessarily trust the Tarly's," Sansa replied. "Not after they'd marched with Viserys for several fortnights during the last war."

"The dragons are coming," Petyr warned ominously. "We were too trusting. You gave them peace, Your Grace, far more generous terms than they deserved. Yet, we were too naive to believe they'd actually stoop to be grateful for your generosity. All these calamities...it can't be a coincidence, I can't believe that now. Yet we were complacent, we tended to a country at peace, even whilst our enemies never stopped making war against us."

She should say something strong, or wise, or at least comforting, so as to offer _something_ to ease her younger siblings. But the Queen's throat stayed dry, as lame as her pitiful reign upon her father's Throne.

* * *

**Tyrion - Year 301**

He should have known something was wrong the moment their ship docked by Sunspear. Prince Quentyn had been absent, understandable given his condition, and they were greeted only by one of Doran Martell's sworn swords, a lumbering Norvoshi man named Areo Hotah. Then from behind several rocks in the cove emerged half a dozen Martell ships, gliding silently and threateningly into a position which preempted any chance of a retreat back by sea, though Tyrion figured that had he smelled the trap and never landed, they would've chased them down anyway, and Tyrion did not believe that the young Princess's skills treading water matched her abilities with a sword.

"Don't try it," the Norvoshi guard threatened, as from behind a hill emerged hundreds of banners and what appeared to be thousands of men marching under them. "We have you outnumbered ten to one."

Seeing Arya moving her hand towards her small sword, Tyrion lifted his palm, telling her to hold off.

"They may well kill us later. But they haven't chosen to kill us now...yet. Let's see what is it exactly that they want."

So they rode as prisoners the short distance into the castle of Sunspear. Watching the Dornishmen strip the so called protection they'd brought of their armor and weapons, Tyrion beckoned Arya forward into a lush, flowery courtyard, where he recognized a thin, elder man sitting in a wheelchair.

The large Norvoshi man walked to his place flanking the Prince's side, and Tyrion worried that Arya would lose her composure here and now. If the Dornish had the gall to make a move against them, what did that mean of what Prince Doran already knew, regarding Rhaegar, and what his court would do to their Queen in King's Landing? Beside him, Clegane grunted. They'd allowed him along with the Princess and her two whitecloaks in keeping their weapons, outnumbered as they were. If they were going to die anyway, perhaps it would not be so bad if they killed Doran Martell out of sheer impulse, with the war already initiated, one last act of suicidal stupidity, in an ultimately fruitless gesture.

"I did not know Dorne still had an army after the defeats we inflicted upon you in the last war. And I do presume, Prince Doran, that this is a war you're trying to start, entrapping a Princess Royal and the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands."

"No," came the raspy reply from the Prince. "Not a war. Not this time. And I apologize for the rude welcome, I just needed some _assurances_ on my part that this...misunderstanding would not devolve into violence."

"You don't want violence," Tyrion questioned skeptically. "You expect your Queen to surrender her crown to the criminal Rhaegar without a battle?"

"In fact, I do," Doran countered. "And not because I hold her sister and Master of Law, though I will admit, your presence here will give Dorne some further confidence...should things not go as smoothly as we'd expect. But please," the older man said, holding out his hands in an almost welcoming manner, "you are my guests, we will share salt, break bread, whatever the sayings go."

"Guest rights, is it," Tyrion asked, seeing a long line of scantily clad women holding various spears or swords or other weapons eyeing them threateningly from one of the nearby open corridors. The infamous Sand Snakes of the late Prince Oberyn, Tyrion reckoned...who would be certainly eager to avenge the death of their father at the hands of the Stark armies. "You expect us to believe we're your guests, and not your prisoners?"

Doran shrugged his shoulders dismissively. "So long as you don't violate your obligations as _my_ guests...believe you me, some things will happen, then King Rhaegar will take his rightful throne. He's written me, asking me to be gentle with my guests, assuring me, as I assure you now, that once this period of...confusion is over, both the Half Lord and the Princess will be free to travel where they wish...although, Princess Arya, if you still wish to wed my son Quentyn, out of respect to both your family and King Rhaegar, who has given me his permission for the marriage...then certainly you are free to remain in Dorne and make your home here."

"Fuck you. Fuck your son."

The girl's eyes raged with anger, yet she looked uncertainly at him, and Tyrion wrinkled his nose, so as to try and communicate to her without words that now was not the time to fight, not when they stood at such disadvantage.

"Her anger is reasonable, surely you can't begrudge her for it," he said, taking a deep breath. "Tf we're to be your guests, then out with the wines and the cheeses and meats then, I'll have you know that the Princess particularly has a fondness for a perfectly seasoned and roasted piece of chicken, which we've not had after so long at sea..."

"Do you believe him," Arya whispered as they were escorted to their quarters by their heavily armed guards.

"Of course not," Tyrion replied dismissively, "though I figure, if we have to die, then might as well be with our stomach full and our minds numbed by wine."

* * *

**Cersei**

"I'm so sorry, milady. I know it's not much..."

The Lady of Winterfell forced a smile, though it was her youngest daughter she smiled to, rather than Lollys Stokeworth.

"It's perfectly fine, Lady Lollys."_ Gods, those two words did not go well together._ "The house of the pigs," Cersei Lannister scoffed and laughed, "I'm glad Sow's Horn finally belongs to a house that's...worthy...of its name."

"Yes, House Hollard is a house on the rise these days," the Lady Lollys said happily and proudly, bearing a toothy smile at her drunken slob of a husband. "I know Duskendale is a grander castle, but it's several days away off the Kingsroad, and I've heard awful things about these Sparrows that are wandering the countryside..."

"No, I can't imagine they are too pleased, aren't they?" Another forced smile. A lifetime ago, Cersei Lannister had dreamed of wedding her dream Prince in the Great Sept of Baelor. None of that happened, the fair and valiant Prince Rhaegar first spurned her for a Martell whore, then a Stark girl barely older than Myrcella now. Consigned to the freezing North with the rest of her family for what seemed like an eternity now, she still managed to hold back a smirk, for the sake of her children, upon hearing what had transpired in King's Landing. There were whispers that the Queen herself had ordered the destruction of the Sept, and all the Septons inside. Cersei did not think this likely, but it'd been years since she'd last seen Sansa Stark, and she did not doubt that an Iron Throne could change the hearts and souls of those who held it.

_I hope she did order it. I'd admire her gall if she did, let them all burn, impudents alike._

"Of course, you may stay with my sister at Castle Stokeworth," the silly woman babbled on, "but I do have to warn you, Falyse is a most unpleasant woman, and her husband..." The girl shuddered, rather than speak further.

"Sow's Horn would be fine," Cersei assured her, clutching Tommen's hand tightly in her own, "and I do thank you so much for your hospitality, Lady Lollys."

There was Duskendale, Baelish's castle, and part of her very much desired its grander accommodations, the hospitality a great lady of the north _and_ west deserved, but with everything going on in the capital, Cersei did not feel exactly comfortable taking her two daughters to the castle of a brothel owner. Part of her wondered whether she should ride back North, rather than wait out the riots and the street battles they said were occurring on some of the grubbier sections of the city, but she'd come so far already. It had been truly so long since she'd left the frozen wasteland of the North...not that Benjen would have prohibited her from visiting Tyrion at Casterly Rock...but why would she ever want to visit Tyrion, and take the chance that she'd unknowingly miss Jaime on one of his visits to Winterfell? That had been the reason she'd written to the man who'd just exiled her father and brother and lover, after all, proposing to marry said man's younger brother, allegedly for the sake of forging a peace between their two houses.

"Oh, I do hope this awful business with the Sept doesn't ruin the Queen's wedding..."

Untangling the fabrics of Tommen's seemingly permanently untucked shirts, Cersei looked back up Lollys.

"The Queen's wedding," she questioned. Just how foolish was this plain woman? "I doubt that's happening, not for some time, what with the Sept destroyed and all the Septons dead."

"Oh," Lollys replied, giving her a strange, confused look. "Well, that's odd. They say the Prince Rhaegar just landed off the shores of Duskendale, to attend his brother's wedding and formally forswear his claim to Queen Sansa's throne..."

* * *

**Petyr**

"The city will hold, I believe."

"Thanks to you immediate arrival, Lord Tarly," Petyr replied. "The city, and the Crown, is in your debt."

"A seat on the Regency Council is the least we can offer," Kevan Lannister replied, "considering how we'd lost two of its members in one day, and my nephew's off sailing far away in Dorne."

Kevan Lannister was no fool, but he was predictable. Which meant Petyr could manipulate him without revealing his true loyalties, or so they'd believe. The man was religious, firmly enough rooted in Andal tradition and upbringing to find the idea of a woman sitting on the Iron Throne unsettling, even repulsive, though his courtesies kept him from expressing such sentiments in the same appalling manner as the High Sparrow. This was, lest they all forget, Tywin Lannister's younger brother, which naturally meant he'd inherited at least a piece of the former Lord of Casterly Rock's ambition, along with his cleverness. Nor had Petyr observed any fondness between the man and his nephew, which would translate into resentment towards the deformed man's place at the head of their very proud family. Kevan Lannister would've never dreamed of making a move against his elder brother. But the despised, deformed son?

"An empty gesture," Randyll muttered. "The riots are quelled today. And I'm honored by this seat at the high table, I assure you, my lords. But the Regency ends the moment the Queen reaches her name-day in less than two moons now, doesn't it?"

"It does," Petyr agreed. "I do believe that the Queen will retain myself as Hand, and as such, she will be take heed of any counsel I give her regarding her Small Council. Your reputation as a soldier precedes you, Lord Randyll. So long as I have the assurance your absolute and undying loyalty to Queen Sansa, I would be confident that you would serve Her Grace well as her new Master of War."

"Don't talk down to me, Baelish," Randyll spat back at him, "fancy brooch or not, you're still a whoremonger in the eyes of most of us."

"If anything, your place as Hand gives credence to the High Sparrow's sermons."

They'd taken well to each other, after Randyll's arrival at the capital, a natural consequence of one shared belief, Kevan Lannister's born out of religion, Tarly's out of a soldier's natural distaste for weakness, whether from women, or even men such he, or his own firstborn son for the matter, whom he'd exiled to the Wall. Which was all good, their alliance against Sansa, against himself, had been everything Petyr could have hoped for when inviting the Tarly's to keep the peace in King's Landing.

"The Sparrows are fanatics, dangerous ones at that, but their words are borne of truth," Randyll replied. "Aye, name me Master of War, give me that brooch and make me Hand...I'm an old man, Baelish. Do you ask me to fight your Queen's wars forever, to keep a dumb girl on the throne contrary to the wishes of most of this realm, save an uncle in the Riverlands and a few relatives on the far side of the frozen North?"

"Not this again," Baelish bemoaned.

_Yes, exactly this again._ Obviously Varys told him about the truth of Tarly's brief support of the Targaryen restoration during the last rebellion. And Petyr had urged Varys in keeping the cultivation of his relationship with the man, because after all his quarrel had been with a rogue Prince, and not his older brother and so-called King. Randyll Tarly was clueless that it had been Petyr who'd cultivated the exact conditions for his timely arrival in the capital, and subsequent promotion to the Regency Council, though Petyr knew that Varys knew what Tarly did not.

"We can't move any further against the Sparrows," Mace Tyrell said sadly. "Enough of them died during the first riot, despite the fact that none have raised any arms against any of the the Queen's men, much less the smallfolk."

"Yet it's the High Sparrow's words which incite the smallfolk to violence," Petyr added.

He hadn't meant it to happen like this. Catelyn was supposed to be alive. Even Stannis, Petyr never cared much for the man, but he'd remain loyal to Sansa, and such appearances were necessary. Both of them would undeniably support the Queen, along with Tyrion Lannister, which gave her three out of five votes in her Regency Council. Which was why Tyrion had to be sent away from the capital, Tarly taking his place, and then aligned with Lord Kevan. As for Mace Tyrell, he'd support Sansa were he a weaker member of the Council, wilting under the shadows of men like Hoster Tully or Jon Arryn. Or if the Crown had offered him even one royal marriage for Loras or Margaery. Not that his vote mattered, with the Lannister and Tarly alliance enough to outnumber any lone dissenting vote from Mace Tyrell, because Cat _had_ died with Stannis. For this, Petyr blamed himself. The girl's sudden insistence in taking her place and asserting her authority he should have expected, though he figured that he'd been lulled into complacence by her complacence. Yet, how could he blame on his own person something as unpredictable as fortune's frown itself, a loose and heavy rock thrown from the crowd which could have easily caved in Boros Blount's head, or his own, for the matter?

"Kill the High Sparrow," Randyll asserted, "and more will take his place, so long as a weak girl sits on the Iron Throne. Hoster Tully and Jon Arryn defied the traditions of this land for a few years, but they can't outrun time, or history, forever. Neither can she."

"What are you suggesting," Mace asked his vassal, as if Randyll were the liege lord rather than he.

"Margaery serves as one of her ladies. Or hostage, perhaps, in the last war. What happens next time the Queen is under assault? What if Margaery had accompanied her to the ruins, and Ser Courtnay's men, seeking to protect the royal family, left her to the masses? Don't deny it, Mace, you know as well as I that it'll be endless war, the Queen against all her realms and peoples in turn, same as the Dance of Dragons, so long as the will of the Great Council of 101 is continually defied. And don't tell me marriage to Viserys Targaryen will make it better, I've met the man, he'll add himself tenfold to his Queen's wars."

"Lord Randyll," Petyr said in a hushed voice. "I've warned you before, what you're speaking of strays far too close to treason..."

"I sit on the Regency Council now," Randyll stated plainly. "Does the Regency Council not hold in its hands the entirety of the sovereign powers of the Iron Throne, until it is dissolved upon the day the sovereign comes of age? One can argue that just as a King cannot commit treason against himself, neither can the Regency Council...or any who'd sit upon it."

It did gnaw at him, the man's conceit, in purporting to believe himself the most powerful man in Westeros now, when such power had been so carefully arranged to be handed on a golden platter to its ignorant recipient. But it was necessary, and the ease in which he could swallow his pride was much of the reason why Petyr found himself in the position he sat in today.

Mace Tyrell stuttered. "I...don't...are you...suggesting that we have the power to..._depose_ the Queen?"

"It's not a suggestion, it's a fact."

"Such an action would be unprecedented," the Archmaester argued.

"Aye," Ser Courtnay said, glaring angrily at their newest colleague, "I agree with you, Baelish. I don't care for this man's fancy words, if it smells like treason, it is."

"Surely such talk cannot augur well for the country," Petyr argued, slamming vehemently one palm against the table. "You speak of history, Lord Randyll, of the precedents set by the Council of two hundred years ago. Yet, what precedent will we set for centuries to come, if it can be said that any Regency Council is free to act and uncrown the very crown they are supposed to serve and protect?"

"Who said anything about uncrowning the girl?"

This caught the attention of Mace Tyrell, though Lord Kevan merely listened impassively. It was true, Randyll Tarly was obviously no idiot, but Petyr had never figured him to be so knowledgeable, or opinionated, on matters of laws or history. Which merely meant that his ideas came not from his own mind, but the Spider's. Good.

"You're suggesting a union with Rhaegar," Kevan whispered from across the table. Kevan was clever, like most Lannisters. He'd figured this out on his own, without needing to conspire with the court across the Narrow Sea. Of course, Petyr had known he would be amenable to the idea, which was why he'd convinced them to appoint Kevan to the Regency Council in Jon Arryn's vacated seat in the first place. With Cat and Stannis's passing, it would seem that the Regency Council of the Queen currently present in King's Landing consisted now _only_ of men whose loyalties to Her Grace and her dynasty were questionable at best.

"The girl had agreed to marry a Targaryen anyway," Randyll said dismissively, "who cares which dragonspawn she marries, except better for us and the kingdoms, the better man, with the better claim."

No one protested the idea immediately, not even Ser Courtnay, or the Archmaester, because Randyll Tarly was right...such a manner of discussion _could_ be interpreted as falling just short of outright treason.

"Do you think," Mace finally asked after they all paused to contemplate the idea, even Petyr in pretense, "do you think that Rhaegar Targaryen can appease the High Sparrow?"

"His name can," Kevan answered. "I've a raven from one of my own...Leo Lefford was in Oldtown, arranging for the marriage of one of his daughters to a Hightower boy. He went to the Citadel, and read with his own eyes the diary of the Mad King's High Septon, the words written by his hands, in the same script as the rest of the diary. He married Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark, willingly, one would presume, I doubt such a man would force an innocent girl's hand in the manner. And Elia Martell's marriage to the Prince annulled."

"You trust this, my lord," Petyr questioned, playing his role as Sansa's defender to the very last. "What kind of High Septon can find basis to annul marriage between a Prince and a Princess in her own right, when she's borne him two children already?"

"It's a bit odd," Randyll admitted, "to be sure. But Targaryens have been known to wed more than one." He looked to Kevan. "Clearly, if we are to offer terms with Rhaegar, we'll have to set our own terms. No incest, no polygamy, no Targaryen exceptionalism, they'll rule and behave in accordance to the laws of the Faith, same as all of us."

"If this is indeed true," he heard Mace muttering. "I fought for Rhaegar. I disclaimed him after the rebellion, and thought I was justified in doing so...because if the man did defoul the maiden Lyanna...yet...if those were all lies...spread just for the sake of justifying Robert's envy and Stark family pride...well...we owe that man an apology...a debt, the entire realm does."

It was obvious that the man had been long troubled now by these rumors from the Citadel, now apparently confirmed by Kevan Lannister.

"So," Kevan continued matter of factly, "if the Council agrees to end the Queen's betrothal to Viserys...if we thus invite Rhaegar to the capital to take his brother's place as Sansa Stark's husband...I will presume that he will take the title of King entirely, rather than King Consort?"

"He will sit on the Iron Throne," Randyll agreed, "his Queen _faithfully_ and _loyally_ by his side."

"I must protest," Petyr said, rising from his seat.

"Protest all you want," Randyll rebutted him. "You don't sit on the Regency Council, you don't get a say in this. You may merely counsel us, and I believe we will reject your counsel, as we have every right to do." He looked to Mace. "Are we three in agreement?"

The Lord of Highgarden sighed. Grudges as he may hold against the Starks for denying him a royal marriage, regret he may harbor for betraying and unintentionally defaming the dragon prince, Mace Tyrell was not a man whose loyalties changed easily, part of the reason he had fought for the Mad King in the first place. But then, they _did_ change, after the fact, which meant they could change again.

"I'm a soldier," Randyll pressed, when his liege lord did not speak. "I'm good at war. But I don't want to fight wars for the rest of my life. Neither do you. We need to bring a permanent peace to the realm, so that your children and mine can marry and bear issue and carry on our legacies...not die fighting for a girl who can't even lift up her own sword."

"What is this," Petyr continued protesting, his voice rising to a shrill. "Do you presume now to dictate terms to the very Crown you serve? To begin and end dynasties, just three men sitting at a table, against the will of your Queen?"

"Hoster Tully and Jon Arryn were a Great Council of two, who presumed to crown a King and then a Queen on behalf of all Seven Kingdoms," Kevan replied, his voice rising, signifying his growing impatience with Petyr's defiance. _Good. Let them remember my protests, let the Archmaester note them in his records._ "I'd say three is an improvement, this time around."

"The Wolf King was a noble experiment, I'll admit," Randyll said, "the girl a foolish one. If such a venture succeeds, then I say good, let it be. But if it's proven a failure, then let's not let the memory of dead men hold us back from doing what's needed." He looked to Ser Courtnay. "Will you defy us, Lord Commander? My men are posted outside these very halls, as are Lord Kevan's, as are Lord Mace's. The whitecloaks may be more skilled with a sword, but our men outnumber yours, and without our men, there'd be no city, much less Queen or Queensguard. But none of this is necessary, lest I remind you, we three on the Regency Council hold the full power of the Crown, and our actions are made, entirely within the bounds of the law, out of loyalty to Queen Sansa, for her sake, so that she may with any luck, _keep_ her head and grow to an old age. Unlike her mother, whom your men failed to protect."

"Lest you believe we do this out of selfishness," Kevan added, lying through his teeth, Petyr thought, "our joined powers as sovereigns in the Crown's name ends the moment Rhaegar sits on the Iron Throne."

A man like Courtnay Penrose was loyal, and fierce, much like his former liege lord Stannis. But he had none of that man's tenacity, much less decades of experience in political matters, not against men like Kevan Lannister, or a man so well trained as Randyll Tarly.

"I serve," Courtnay relented, bowing.

"Good," Randyll agreed. He then looked ominously at Petyr. "I don't doubt Lord Baelish's intentions are true. But they are ill advised, and not suitable for the moment. Ser Courtnay, I ask you to escort the Lord Hand to his tower, and ensure that he does not leave it. Once Rhaegar arrives, he can decide whether to keep his services as Hand, or find another."

_Are you hoping it will be yourself?_

This was not good. Not that he hadn't realized the possibility of a hostile move against him, it was his fault, Petyr could admit, he played his hand for the Queen too strenuously. But Petyr Baelish played the long game whereas men like Tarly and Kevan played for the immediate horizon, and if anything, his confinement, though a setback, was one he could overcome, and ought further help him down the line.

"What about the North," Petyr shouted frantically, attempting one last desperate plea for the sake of his Queen. "Surely Benjen Stark will not stand for this, if Queen Sansa does not wish to marry Rhaegar! And Edmure Tully's men are already marching on the capital..."

"Don't lie, Baelish," Kevan scoffed contemptuously. He explained to Randyll. "It's a bluff. He knows as well as I the Lord Edmure's difficulties in convincing men of the Faith to march with him, after the Sept was destroyed."

"As for the North," Randyll said thoughtfully, "Lady Cersei and her children are ensconced in the Crownlands, I believe?"

"At Sow's Horn, yes," Kevan replied.

"Good. I'll send a squadron of men to accompany them to the capital. Benjen Stark will not move against us, not with most of his family in our hands."

"This is treason," Petyr finally screamed, rather hysterically, as the whitecloaks led him forcibly out of the council room. "I will not stand for it, someone warn the Queen..."

Cat's death was the worst setback. Though he would've had to marry Lysa anyway, once he ushered the Queen and her family safely into the Vale, now he'd have no reason not to arrange for the ghastly woman's death as soon as the opportunity presented itself. And ultimately while his heart always belonged to Cat, Catelyn's _daughter_ was the future, his future, that had never been in doubt. And soon he would be _her_ future, she'd come to see that, once he won back for her her rightful Throne atop the Seven Kingdoms, saving her from the horrible men who'd betrayed her and ripped away her family, her crown so cruelly.

* * *

**Tyrion**

"To be honest, I'd expected worse out of captivity, if I didn't fear for the worst for your sister." He stole a look at the guards, who stood nearby as usual, with vacant, though constantly attentive stares. "What's the name of the bastard girl again? The short one, with the short hair? And the daggers? I do think she likes me."

"Keep getting fat on your wine, Half Man," Arya said, munching on a small piece of steak as they sat in utter and sheer boredom. There wasn't much to do in Sunspear, except sleep, drink, and eat. And fuck, for Tyrion at least. There'd been no shortage of attendants willing to share his bed at night, a transparent attempt by Doran Martell to keep his senses dull, but like with their wine and food, there was no sense in turning down the most basic of life's necessities.

"Do you really think you'll make a difference? One girl, and one sword, here, or in King's Landing?"

"I'm a Princess of the blood, Lord Tyrion," Arya replied defiantly. "Men are sworn to follow my word in all seven kingdoms."

"Not this one, so it would seem."

"Well, _when_ we escape this one."

"No need for escape, my good friends."

They both jumped, first startled, and then embarrassed, to have been caught off guard by a crippled man.

"And the one you speak of is Tyene, I believe," Doran Martell said, seated in his chair by the doorway. "Though I fear she feels for you contempt at best, Half Man."

"Prince Doran," Tyrion bowed mockingly. "Are you here to finally set us free? Or pray tell us, at least, any news from the capital, which I'm sure your very well informed of."

Half Man and Princess exchanged a worried look at the thought.

"I'll tell you, Lord Tyrion, the truth of the matter."

"Which is," Arya interrupted, insistent on not being ignored.

"I've been betrayed," Doran remarked gravely.

Tyrion frowned. "By Rhaegar?"

"By everyone." Rather than speak further, the Prince ordered them. "Come."

Quickly, his guards were in the room, and as with all their movements in the castle, they walked securely escorted by a dozen of the Martell spearmen, led by the big Norvoshi, as always. This time they walked for longer, through hallways and open squares they'd never been allowed through before. Then down a side tower, guarded carefully by another half dozen soldiers. The Prince did not speak the entire time, and though Tyrion did fear that perhaps his patience had waned, or Rhaegar's, and the hour of their execution was at hand, something told him that they were going to live. The girl did not seem overly concerned either, because Tyrion would have expected her to claw tooth and nail for her life. Hells, they allowed her to keep her little sword even now, certainly not a convenient object to give someone who was about to die.

Finally, they arrived at a yet another wonderful garden, where they saw a short woman with dark hair crouched next to a fountain, the hum of her elegant voice echoing towards them as she appeared to whisper to the waters themselves. A brilliant tiara of diamonds and silver adorned her hair, and Tyrion guessed at whom they were about to meet.

"Princess Arianne?"

Doran nodded, Hotah setting his wheelchair at a stop several lengths away from his daughter. It had been odd, that they'd never met the spurned love of Robb Stark until now, though Tyrion had figured it was to keep the girl away from Arya, the late Prince's sister an unsettling reminder of past grudges. Prince Quentyn did at least made a shallow attempt at courtship, though Tyrion saw that his appearance of coldness during the admittedly farcical rituals covered up a deeper sense of shyness innate in the young man.

Hearing their voices, the beautiful daughter of their traitor host rose, and both Tyrion and Arya nearly rubbed their eyes at what her body had concealed behind her beforehand...a small child, a boy, about four years in age. His complexion was dark, though not as tan as the Martells or most other Dornishmen, and Tyrion thought he could discern the vaguest tints of red running through his amply flowing mane, dark brown in color.

"And her son by Robb Stark," Doran added, confirming his suspicions. "Joffrey Sand...once legitimized, the _true_ heir to the Seven Kingdoms."


	17. Of Vengeance and Duty

**Young Ned**

"My Lord, I'm sorry for death of your brother."

"It's a shame, yes," Renly Baratheon answered with a reluctant smirk, an odd expression, Ned thought, for a man in mourning. "He wasn't much of a brother to me, really, nor I to him, but I appreciate the sentiment all the same."

"He was a good man," Beric replied, still resting upon his knees. "A dutiful one, until his dying day. Any word, on the Lady Shireen."

"Safe in the Keep," Renly answered, one eyebrow raised in thought. "You wish to ask whether I am your liege lord now, or she your liege lady, am I right, Lord Beric?"

"I suppose that's a matter for our new King to decide," Beric replied, giving away nothing of his own opinion.

Lord Renly, as far as they all knew, still the Castellan of Storm's End, had called all the Baratheon banners upon the news of Stannis's death in the riots of King's Landing, and they'd ridden with little rest from the marches since that day. Arriving at the Wendwater this morning, only several days' ride from the capital, Lord Renly had met them, and informed them the ground shattering news that the Queen's Council had decided to name Rhaegar king, inviting him to the capital and thus undoing with a single letter what they'd fought so hard to prevent four years before.

_"Do you think she did it," Ned had asked, along the way. "Blown up the Sept?"_

_"What do you think?"_

_"No," Ned answered. "I remember her eyes. She had kind eyes. She showed kindness to her enemy. I don't think she could have ordered such an awful thing."_

_"You've got good instincts, Ned," Beric whispered, both readying themselves for the new wars to come. "I don't think so either."_

So it had been the Queen's men who had betrayed her with the Sept, and now betrayed her very crown. The same ones, Beric had pondered out loud, in all likelihood. So quickly the tides turned. They'd put down a rebellion once. Would Renly Baratheon call them to rise now, as rebels in turn? Would they do so anyway, even if he didn't?

"Shireen Baratheon is a good woman, despite her father...despite her mother," Renly proclaimed thoughtfully. "She _is_ the Lady of Storm's End...just as Sansa of House Stark remains your rightful Queen."

Ned looked up. This was a fact, yet he knew there was some hidden significance to Lord Renly's words. He looked to Beric, who seemed to nod in understanding.

"What about Rhaegar," Ned asked. It would be impudent for a child to interrupt a great lord like Renly, except they'd not forgotten that Edric of House Dayne was every much a great lord as the younger brother of Robert and Stannis Baratheon, especially now that he was to remain merely the Castellan of his niece's castle. "Are we to accept him as our King now?"

Again, the mystifying smile from the man. Rather than answer, he looked to the Lady Brienne, who had joined them in the Kingswood several days before, amidst a charred landscape, pockmarks of the awful fires which had terrorized the countryside for the last several years.

"Lady Brienne, I've known you since you were a child, and I trust your judgment. These fires, which you saw with your own eyes at the ruins of Summerhall...do you believe they are truly a judgment from the Gods to punish our fair Queen for some...girlish triflings?"

Dropping to her knees, the broad shouldered knight in all but name answered immediately. "We caught several bandits outside of Felwood. They admitted to setting the fires, but for the sake of pillage."

"One man admitted to being paid," Ned added. "We found him in the Rainwood, but an arrow got him in his neck before he could say anything further. Lord Beric and I gave chase, but they'd already disappeared under the tree cover."

"Seems suspicious, doesn't it," Renly asked, his intended answer obvious. "I haven't been back to the capital since the rebellion. I failed rather badly at all that, but I'd say that everything that's transpired in King's Landing, up until this sudden invitation by the Her Grace's Regency Council...that somehow, three men who retain the least loyalty to Her Grace are the only three who survive to make this proclamation mere weeks before her majority, that all seems quite suspicious too, doesn't it?"

None of this was news to them, yet the words had their effect, coming from someone so high as the former Master of Whispers.

"Will this be war then," Beric asked. "Do we march on the capital against Rhaegar?"

Renly sighed sadly. "I called you here because I trust you, Lord Beric. And Lady Brienne, your sword and your loyalty, your sense of duty, I've long admired. The others, the Bucklers, the Estermonts...I've less trust for. The Carons, the Morrigens, the Mertyns...well, I'm not entirely sure about them." The smirk upon the man's face disappeared. "I've word that Her Grace has agreed to the marriage, and the subsequent union of crowns between Houses Stark and Targaryen. So long as this union stands, Rhaegar is our King."

Beric nodded, but Ned had to ask, to be sure. "And if it doesn't?"

A warm smile from the older man. "Then we are loyal to our Queen, as you were, when you destroyed the armies of the invaders below the walls of King's Landing."

They were the words he wanted to hear, and Ned struck his sword into the dirt, imagining it to be Dawn. "Forever, I serve Queen Sansa of House Stark."

"As do we all," Renly said, observing Beric and Brienne nod their heads in agreement. "The Lady Shireen will accompany me back to Storm's End after her coronation. She _must_ be loyal, you see, as she is young, and has none of the experience of her father in commanding men and armies. But you must understand, my good lords, and lady...though she must swear fealty to King Rhaegar before leaving the capital...the Lady Paramount of the Stormlands has _no quarrel_ against those who serve Queen Sansa...and neither does her castle. Do you understand me?"

"We do," Beric agreed.

"I'll speak bluntly," Renly said. "Two men from the Reach and one minor lord from the Westerlands have decided to restore the same Targaryen Prince that more than half a continent fought tooth and nail to expel twenty years ago. The Queen is a young child with a noble heart, a generous spirit, and a forgiving nature...who is also a prisoner in her own castle, with all the men and women with the strongest ties to her mysteriously dead, one after another, except for Lord Baelish, a man with little lands nor bannermen alike...despite his position, his name carrying little power or weight across the realm. Does this sound like a recipe for a lasting peace, my dear friends?"

"It sounds like base betrayal and treachery," Brienne grunted through gritted teeth.

"Not by us," Renly said, looking at his feet hanging by his saddle, eyes downcast and solemn, before he continued. "I'd failed her, so utterly and completely. My failures got her father and brother killed, good men both. She ought to have hated me...yet, she cried, when she rightfully dismissed me from the Small Council. She still called me her uncle, when she bade me farewell from King's Landing."

Ned had never heard this tale, yet he believed it instantly, and he could easily envision the scene in his mind, from the sweet girl he'd met so briefly by the banks of the Blackwater.

"Most men would see such sentiments as weakness," Renly continued. "I don't believe so. I believe her mercy and her compassion are exactly the ideals that make Queen Sansa a Queen worth serving, a Queen worth fighting for. I called the few of you here, because I know you believe the same."

"Yer damn right we do," Thoros of Myr muttered, as sober as Ned had ever seen the man.

"War will return, I think. I _hope_ it does. And if we know war is coming, we ought to prepare for it, am I right, Lord Beric?"

"Wise words, my lord."

"You know the marcher lords," Renly said, leaning forward upon his horse, his voice lowering to a whisper. "Gather those loyal to the true crown, and make them ready for the war. Lady Brienne, you and your father know the houses of the Rainwood and Kingswood...do the same there. Lord Edric...I've no question that the Martells are eager for treason again this time around, yet House Dayne's influence from the Torentine to Prince's Pass is not to be denied."

"Aye," Ned answered, hands still gripped firmly upon the hilt of his sword, knowing what he meant, that he may need to fight his own liege lords again, perhaps in Dorne this time, even below the walls of Starfall. "I understand."

"My position is more delicate, but I'll lend you what knowledge I can gather, though it is my duty to watch over the Lady Shireen, _before_ all else." Though he was not a fighting man, Renly Baratheon raised his sword high in the air. "To Queen Sansa, of House Stark!"

"Long may she reign," they all chanted together.

* * *

**Sansa**

"Dragonstone has maybe five hundred or more men, sworn to me, I think. I can call them to sail, see if they can maybe meet with Uncle Edmure's men somewhere by the Trident."

The Queen looked sadly at her younger brother, the Prince of Dragonstone, less than seven moons away from his thirteenth name-day, and only slightly older than she had been on the day of her coronation. They'd been besieged then, and so they were again now, except after Pyke their castle had been filled with strong men who supported her and her family...not strangers, knowing too well her helpless state, who'd chosen to openly betray her. Though he'd grown tall, his muscles still had yet to fill his lanky frame, and Sansa wondered if Bran would ever grow into the great warrior her brother had always dreamed of becoming. But skills with swords regardless, Bran seemed much more mature than she'd been at the same age, yet Sansa did not want to burden him with even a small piece of what she'd been forced to endure in the intervening years.

"They won't make a difference," she shrugged helplessly. "The Tarlys have the city now. Lord Stannis is dead. Even if we wanted to make war...we stand no chance."

If she'd never gone out to face the High Sparrow, her mother would still be alive, as would Shireen's father. Though Arya's good friend mourned, she did not seem to blame Sansa, thankfully unaware of the fact that her father's death had been the consequence of her personal decision, rather than the overall Council's. But Sansa knew the truth. And she tried to tell herself that she was not rationalizing for her own mistake, when thinking over the events of the past few fortnights in her mind, and believing that the results may have nevertheless ended the same.

Her uncle Edmure had managed to rally the Blackwoods and a few other houses that worshiped the Old Gods. Some who kept to the Seven, such as the Brackens, had refused the call. Other, like the Pipers and the Mootons, did march, whether out of loyalty to their liege lord or Queen, Sansa didn't know. The Freys joined too, but only after obtaining a marriage of one of their ladies to her Uncle. Last she'd heard from Petyr, before they moved him to the Hand's tower and prevented the Queen from seeing even her own hand, the Riverlands contingent had just departed the Twins following her uncle's wedding, and Ser Balon doubted that they'd even arrived at the Crossroads just yet.

Which meant the Tarlys may have entered the city invited or uninvited, especially as determined as Lord Randyll was, it seemed, to have her marry Rhaegar. If they tried to force the city, then Stannis would have fought them...a dubious task however, considering he still had the city to pacify. And what of the Lannisters? Tyrion was in Dorne, and while all three of her supposedly loyal Regency Councilors had avoided her since sending out the invite to Rhaegar, she'd heard as well that Lancel's father had nearly been as eager in the betrayal as Randyll Tarly. A dark part of her mind thought that one day she would see Lancel again, and her fair knight, having not forgotten their love, would unseat his father and avenge his Queen. As to her more immediate present, Stannis could have died anyway, the Tarly's could have entered the city anyway, which meant the only tangible difference she'd made in attending the Bolton executions was getting their mother killed.

"Are you really going to agree to this," Jeyne asked, even more hysterical than her Queen since hearing the news. "He's a rapist, he raped your aunt, he'll be horrible to you!"

She hugged her friend, standing next to her, the two of them staring along with Bran and Ser Balon at the doors of the Throne Room, closed to its rightful occupant ever since the Tarly arrival.

"Ser Courtnay and Boros and all the other brothers may have forgotten their vows," Balon swore to her, hands ready to draw his sword, though whether to strike at air, or the metal gates, Sansa knew not. "I haven't. If Rhaegar wants you, he'll have to come through me, Tarly and all of them, I swear."

Sansa set her hand gently over her loyal Queensguard's wrist. Outside of her own family and Jeyne, he was the last person in the castle who'd remained ever steadfast to her, even the Lady Margaery, the supposedly great love of her brother's, had abandoned her, though Sansa assumed it had been her father's decision to send Margaery back to Highgarden.

"We can't fight this battle. It's not one we can win." Sansa did not forget her lessons for Petyr, on how to pick her battles, whether on an open fields, or in the secret hallways of the court.

"All we have to do is to keep Rhaegar from entering the city until your name day," Bran protested.

"With what men? All the banners by the city are sworn to the Regency Council, in my name, but to them in by _law_. Everything they've done is...lawful, in a way. Not even Ser Courtnay will fight for me, much less the Tarly's or the Lannisters. Should I call the City Watch to defy the Council then? Maybe some of the Baratheons? They're weakened too, all of them, from the riots, and we'll just be ordering more men to die for a losing cause."

"You're the Queen," Balon protested in his gruff voice. "The rightful Queen, aye, it may be a losing cause, but it's a cause worth dying for!"

"We can flee," Jeyne said. "Sail away somewhere, wait until you reach your name day, then return...you'll be able to dismiss your regents, just like Aegon the Broken King. Order them all killed, if you have to."

It was a pleasant thought, having Ser Balon take the heads of all who'd betrayed her. But Jeyne was not a Queen, and her words were merely childish fantasies, similar to the ones that Sansa had abandoned far too late.

"If I give King's Landing to Rhaegar willingly, the city and the Throne will be his forever."

"We can fight another war, call all the banners of the the northern three kingdoms, write Lord Renly," Bran insisted.

Sansa shook her head. "Another war? One that will be longer and bloodier than Rhaegar's Rebellion?" She swayed her eyes around the empty halls. "Swear to me you won't say a word of this to anyone?"

"I swear," they all replied dutifully, and then followed their Queen to a more secluded solar by the library.

"I've been giving Lord Petyr's words a lot of thought. He said to us Bran, remember, when we said goodbye to mother...this was no accident. All of this, the riots, mother's death...the destruction of the Sept, probably...it was all planned by Rhaegar, and whatever treacherous friends he has still in Westeros. The Tarlys, probably." She bit her lips. "The Tyrells too, I wouldn't doubt it."

"I knew it," Jeyne muttered angrily. "I knew she couldn't be trusted!" Jeyne had always been jealous of Margaery, yet Sansa trusted her anyway, she'd always craved the older girl's friendship and approval. Though, while perhaps the Rose of Highgarden had led Robb astray, Sansa figured she had little to do with this current conspiracy. It was always the men, men like Mace Tyrell or Kevan Lannister, who'd been determined to oppose her reign in one way or another, since the day she'd been crowned. And they'd all been ignorant of it, even mother and Uncle Petyr, until it'd been too late. They'd fought her in ever more secret battlefields, the countryside, the streets, the Septs, the hearts of the smallfolk...places that even Lord Petyr had been ignorant of.

"We can fight them," she whispered, grabbing Jeyne and Bran's wrists with her fingers. "Not with war, not with battles, but we fight them the same way they fought us...in secret, under their noses. I'll marry Rhaegar, I don't have a choice in that. But I'll get him to trust me, and then...we'll destroy them."

"How," Jeyne asked skeptically.

Sansa did not know exactly, if she were honest with herself. "We'll find a way. Maybe we'll figure out how to turn him away from his allies, like Mace Tyrell. Maybe Lancel can get Tyrion back from Sunspear, and together they can overthrow Lord Kevan." She looked her brother in the eye. "We'll get Arya back. Maybe she'll be the one to stick Rhaegar's throat with her Needle."

"Aye," Balon's eyes lit up. "I'd like to see that."

"But we have to be patient, you see. We're weak now. But we're stronger than Rhaegar was, when we defeated him in war. Father and mother are dead, Bran. Grandpapa's gone, Lord Arryn is dead, and Sweetrobin a child and Uncle Petyr a prisoner. So it'll be up to us, we'll find a way, we're the children of Eddard Stark, the Quiet Wolf, who overthrew an ancient dynasty! We're the children of Queen Catelyn, who helped her husband and then her daughter rule the Seven Kingdoms for almost twenty years! If we have any of our parents' blood in us, their wisdom, their strength, then we can't give up, but we must be smart about it...smarter than the Tarly's, smarter than Rhaegar, or his Spider."

As if on cue, her three remaining friends in the Keep bent their knees together in unison at the conclusion of her speech, her words, for once, entirely her own, though Sansa knew not where they came from even as she said them.

"We'll fight your enemies, Your Grace," Bran said, "openly, or in secret."

"Or we'll die trying," Ser Balon added ominously.

* * *

The gardens which had once been her sanctuary now seemed a prison. Her father had ordered the seeds of a weirwood brought from the North and planted in the Keep, across from the small Godswood generations of Targaryens had kept as a formality over the centuries. She'd never given much thought to the Gods of the north, they were mere trees, after all, though she'd always found old Godswood calming, and stopped every few moons to see the new weirwood sprout and grow from tiny sapling to a young tree. Would Rhaegar have it cut down, she wondered, before it matured, and thus profane the last tie she had in this castle to her father? What would her father think of her, all of Ned Stark's children prisoners in one castle or another? One thing she could ensure, at the very least, in cooperating with Rhaegar, was to hopefully obtain the release of her sister and Lord Tyrion from Sunspear. They'd heard nothing from Dorne for several moons, which meant nothing good, and Sansa could only hope that they were alive. She had a feeling they were. Arya was too strong to be killed, the Half Man too clever, both of them so much more skilled at surviving...at _being_, than herself.

"My Queen," a familiar and instantly welcome voice whispered at her.

"Uncle Petyr!"

Instantly she ran from whence the sound emerged, and found her Hand hidden behind a broad and ancient oak tree. She leaped into his arms, and clutched him like he was the only family she had left...which he was, in a way.

"Where...how did you escape the Hand's Tower?"

"I still have some resources available to me, dear girl." Somewhere, the nightingale chirped under a full moon, and Petyr looked and pointed his hand towards a distant wall. "Hurry, Your Grace, we have little time."

"What do you mean?"

His eyes were frantic, his face as gaunt as she'd ever seen him, and Sansa wondered just how well fed he'd been by her treasonous regents, who'd taken captive for themselves a Queen, her surviving royal family, and her only remaining loyal councilor.

"The cove, beneath the tunnels..."

Sansa understood immediately. "You found a ship?"

"It's waiting," Petyr whispered stealthily. "I wish I could have reached you sooner, but it took time, for me to ready everything. We have no time now, Rhaegar is in the very city, perhaps he's even entered the castle." He grabbed her by both shoulders. "We must run, before it's too late."

"No," she replied immediately, realizing from his reaction that Uncle Petyr did not understand what she'd determined on her own this last fortnight, while he'd been all but enchained and kept away from her.

"No? I understand, your brothers. I wish we can find them, bring them with us, but it'll alert the guards. They're all loyal to the Tarly's now, you must know this, then Rhaegar once he's crowned..."

"Uncle Petyr," she begged him, grabbing frantically his arms in her hands, "you _don't_ understand. I _must_ stay, I _must_ do my duty, I must marry...Rhaegar."

"Surely you don't mean...," Petyr stuttered, looking the confused for once. "He's an awful man, my dear Sansa. You can't marry him. Even if those rumors of the High Septon's diary are true...he's a cripple, he's conspired to murder your family..."

Without thinking, the Queen leaned her head towards her Hand until her face met his, and took his lips into her own. It felt wrong. She had to tilt her head down to kiss the man. Petyr had loved her mother, not her foolish daughter. But they said she resembled her mother, when Catelyn Tully had been a girl her age. And though it continued to feel so wrong...Sansa felt like she had no choice, she needed him, and she knew what men like him wanted...all men, whether they pretended to or not, save the ones like Loras.

For once, her actions left her Hand breathless, speechless. Taking the lead, pressing her advantage while she still maintained it, Sansa took his hand in hers, his skin feeling oddly dry and cold to the touch.

"Stay here with me, unc...Lord Petyr. I need you here, I need my Hand. I _must_ do my duty, and I can't do it without you here, helping me..."

"I live to serve you, my Queen, until my dying day. I'll take this country back for you, win for you your Throne again, I _promise_ you. But here is not the not the place, Your Grace. Your friends, your people, are all in the North, in the Riverlands, in the Vale. We'll call them together, we'll reform, we'll march, we'll sever our alliances with those unworthy of you, and find new allies, _loyal_ ones, whose houses we will raise and reward for their loyalty. Together, we'll all make war against the enemy..."

"You don't understand," Sansa pleaded again, repeating herself. "That's _exactly_ what I aim to do. But _here_, in King's Landing." Her voice lowered to a whisper. "Do you think I've forgotten my enemies, of all they've done to me, to my family? But I am a Queen, and a Queen does not flee, she does not run." Her voice rose again. "A Queen serves her justice, however she may, and I _will_ have my justice, Lord Baelish, on all who've betrayed me..."

"You can start with him."

The soft voice startled them both. So engrossed had they been in their argument, they'd neither seen nor heard the approach of a portly, bald man, adorned in the finest golden silks of the east.

"You...," Sansa said, her thin shoulders shivering at the sight of the new arrivals, "you must be Lord Varys."

"It's my pleasure to finally meet you, Your Grace." He had the temerity to actually bow to her. "And I'm afraid you're right, I have worked rather hard to undermine your reign, though I assure you, sweet girl, it's of no personal dislike for you, it's merely my duty, for the King that I serve."

"You," Sansa snarled, her fists balled up in fury. Behind this man they called the Spider, she saw not Ser Balon, but Courtnay Penrose and Boros Blount, who eyed her warily, and she knew she'd find no help with these two formerly loyal swords once sworn to her. There was also another man, older, grey strands streaking through his dark hair, with the complexion of a Dornishman and behind him, a portly man with red hair, the sword in his belt Sansa instantly recognized as having belonged to her father. "You murdered my father, you murdered my brother."

"I had help," Varys replied unemotionally. He pointed a carefully trimmed finger at the man standing behind her. "Lord Baelish assisted me every step of the way, from concealing from the Small Council the changed loyalties of those who raised their banners for King Rhaegar against Eddard Stark at Pyke, to manipulating your regime and leaving it vulnerable, marring its legacy so permanently with that hideous attack on the Great Sept...to inviting the Tarly's into the city, knowing full well they'd betrayed you in the last war, and intended to do so again..."

"Lies," Petyr screamed. At first he looked frozen, before his mouth opened and closed in a panicked frenzy. "All lies, Your Grace, the Spider is your enemy, he's always been your enemy..."

"I have, but not the only one, and not your most egregious..."

"He's an eunuch, he's been deformed, he served the Mad King, you can't trust a man like him..."

"Lord Petyr," Sansa said, unsure of whether she was going to defend him, which her instincts screamed for her to do...or whether she ought ask him increasingly pressing questions, questions raised by a small voice which gnawed steadily in the back of her head, a morbid curiosity which had abruptly been awakened by the Spider's accusation. "You can't...you couldn't have betrayed me, could you?"

"I didn't, my Queen, I swear to you..."

"You loved my mother..." In the corner of her eye, she saw that the Dornishman had been pushing a wheelchair occupied by a thin and hunched old man, the color of his silver hair still discernible under the light of a full moon.

"I did, and I love you, Your Grace, as Catelyn's daughter, I'd never betray you..."

"Take him to the Black Cells," the man whom they'd decided she would marry proclaimed in a deep and admittedly regal voice.

"No, you can't! He...we must..."

She needed to know the truth now! If Petyr was innocent, and they took him into the dungeons, and did horrid things to him...and yet...

It was Ser Courtnay himself who grabbed roughly the collar of her Hand's robes, his neck lurching violently as old knight nearly dragged him away from her and towards the castle, Petyr screaming his innocence until his voice disappeared behind the walls of the Red Keep.

Which left her to face the usurper who called himself a King. Rhaegar Targaryen. The enemy, who'd been their enemy for longer than she'd herself been alive. A man older than her father, whom she was to marry. A pathetic looking creature, a cripple, who barely looked a king from the neck up only. He appeared so weak, and Sansa's heart raged inside her chest, telling her that he was vulnerable, his guards and spiders be damned, that she could wrap her hands around his thin neck, and choke him to death, finishing the job that her father and Robert couldn't at the Trident.

_Calm, Sansa, calm. A tantrum now will get you nowhere. Even if you kill Rhaegar now, your enemies still hold the city. Arya is still captive in Dorne, your brothers captive here to the Tarly's. You must behave, you must act the good Queen, the obedient girl._

The Gods knew how long they stood there at an impasse, staring at each other, neither one of them speaking. Finally, it was the great enemy who broke the silence.

"Ser Lewyn, please escort Queen Sansa to her chambers."

So Queen Sansa, the First of Her Name, the protector of her realm, did what she was told, leading the stranger sullenly through the halls of her home, which now belonged to another.

* * *

The Queen woke, and felt like she hadn't slept at all. First she thought of her uncle Petyr, and hoped that he was innocent of everything they accused him of, and prayed that they did not treat him too badly in the dungeons. Then she thought to pray to her father, and her mother, to ask them to watch over her, and Bran, and Arya, and Rickon. She would pray to the Mother, the Warrior for strength, except something in her heart rebelled at the thought of praying to the Gods who had let her down, who had forsaken her to the worst of fates. She thought about praying to the Old Gods, except she did not know just _how_ to pray to them, or whom she was to even pray to. Yet, perhaps they were the ones who'd been true, and this was her punishment, for abandoning the Gods of her father, in favor of the Gods of her mother.

_Those who kept to the Old Gods stayed true to me, even now. Those who keep to the Seven betrayed me._

It wasn't Jeyne who brought her her breakfast, but the Dornishman, whom she learned was Lewyn Martell, the Great Uncle of that nice boy Trystane. What would happen to him now, she wondered. Would her uncle have to execute that bright young man, who'd been as innocent as any who'd gone to war for the sake of a distant stranger?

He brought with him Rhaegar, and Sansa took the tray of food, saw that they'd not known to bring her lemoncakes, so instead she grabbed a piece of the plain bread and chewed it crossly, taking in a few sips of the milk between every bite, and refusing to meet the eyes of the cripple and the lackey who'd accompanied him.

"I know you hate me."

The bread was dry, and tasted like sand in her mouth.

"You probably don't believe it, but I loved your aunt Lyanna. More than anyone, more than I could have thought possible."

There was an orange in her tray. She took it, and stabbed it with her fingernails, peeling it sloppily, the sticky juice spilling onto her dress and her bed sheets.

"She loved me. I loved her. I married her, out of love. She bore me a child, out of love. Yet, even had I felt nothing for her, I would have done it all the same. Because it was my duty."

She could stand his hypocrisy no longer.

"Your duty was to your wife Elia Martell, who died after you'd abandoned her. Your duty was to your children, who were massacred when you abandoned them!"

She chided him, as if she were a Queen, and he an impertinent vassal. As a mother would a truculent child, but it made no effect upon the man, whose face seemed carved out of the ugliest stones.

"I miss them every day, sweet Rhaenys, the loveliest child I've ever laid my eyes upon. And Egg...the man he would be today. I loved Elia too. Even when I met Lyanna, that wonderful day in Harrenhal..."

_The day all the smiles died._

Sansa turned her eyes to Ser Lewyn. "My good Ser, how can you bear to serve a man so...full of..._shit_?"

"The Dragon must have three heads."

"What?"

The Dornishman did not say a word, not at her condemnation, nor his master's cryptic message.

"My dear Elia, she did for me all she could...yet the maesters said she could no longer bear children, that birthing the elder Aegon had nearly killed her." Rhaegar sighed, and had the gall to be sad, after all the accursed havoc he'd wrecked on her family and so many other families. "Sometimes I rue the day I met that High Priestess from Volantis. But her truth is my burden, my destiny..."

"What are you talking about?"

For a moment, his purple eyes seemed caught in his ancient past, in a different world. Then, they returned to meet her in her room.

"It's no matter, one day you'll understand." He nodded to Ser Lewyn, who gripped the handles of his chair, ready to thankfully take him out of her sight. But before they left, he turned to her one last time. "You're many years younger than me. I'd expect you to outlive me, I'd wish it, in fact. I'm no fool, I don't expect you to ever care for me, much less love me, after all that's transpired in the last twenty years, between your family and mine. But I _do_ expect you to do your duty. You _will_ bear me two children, no more, no less. Then, you may do as you wish. Go North to Winterfell, or Riverrun...take your own lovers, even, it doesn't matter. All that matters, is that the Dragon must have three heads, that we are prepared to fight the _greatest_ war to come."

With that, they left, and had her heart not burned with the desire for revenge, her hatred for this evil man growing stronger with every minute she was firced to cast her eyes upon him, Sansa would have wished for poison in her food before it got any worse.

* * *

**Daenerys**

Her fingers were trembling by the time she finished reading the scroll. Daario, immersed in his bath, open to the summer breeze coming off the waves like everything in these fairest of isles, did not notice.

"I have to go back."

"Huh," he asked, choking on a glass of wine. He'd returned from his latest wars with yet another scar upon the back of his shoulder. She liked it actually, the scars looked good on him, never mind the pain he must suffer each time his body received another trophy for her fingers to toy with.

"My brother..."

"The twit? Or the old one?"

She'd suspected it once she heard about the Sept. Yet her mind blocked it out, and the Princess of nowhere continued burying her head in the wondrous sands of the Summer Isles, and prayed that the ensuing news she'd expected to come afterwards would never arrive. But much as she could run from the world, the world would not run for her sake.

"Rhaegar will be crowned in King's Landing. He will take his seat on the Iron Throne."

"So?"

Raising his body from the water to meet her eyes, Daenerys saw first confusion, then a growing unease and concern fill the eyes of her lover. Daario wouldn't ever truly understand. Or care. Which was why she...enjoyed him. Which was why she had to leave him now. He'd be upset. He'd curse, and spit, and rage, and then they'd make love, more passionately than any time before or after, she imagined.

But then, he'd let her leave, of that Daenerys had no doubt. And just how did she feel about that, about leaving the man who'd been her lover for the last year? Sadness, for sure. Would she forget her sadness though, once she set sail for the lands her ancestors once ruled, which the blood of the dragon, _her_ blood, now ruled again?

"I must go to him. It's my duty." A concept unknown to a mercenary, Daenerys thought rather ungenerously.

_It's my curse._

* * *

.

.

.

.

.

.

**Notes & Responses:** Yup, Robb def screwed up...though some accounts seem to suggest that perhaps it was more Arianne taking advantage of the situation, rather than Robb going after her. After all, Trystane remembered Robb being rather disinterested in his sister until their alleged affair.

As for Joffrey, agreed, I don't see any reason for him to resemble his canon "counterpart"...the name is likely a coincidence, considering Joffrey Dayne was a famed warrior in Dornish lore.


	18. Mockingbird's Song

**Sansa**

"My King. My brother. I betrayed you. I betrayed our family, I betrayed your crown. My treason is beyond grave, and does not deserve forgiving. Yet I plead for forgiveness all the same, I plead for what should not be granted, except by the mercy of my king, my brother, and the Gods above, may my unworthy self wish for a miracle."

The Queen sat by the side of the Iron Throne and exercised significant restrain from rolling her eyes. _Just hurry and get this farce over with._

"Your sins are grave," Rhaegar commanded from the seat that belonged to her, and her father before her, "and your mistakes exceed your sins. Many have suffered the harshest of punishments for far less, the judgment due and deserved upon the basest of usurpers, who would betray their very families, their blood, for the sake of their personal lust and ambition."

_Can they just kill each other now, please?_

"Though you are my brother, I raised you as my own son. It cuts far worse, betrayal by one's children, yet this father, who has lost so many of his own already, cannot bear much more loss. Rise, Viserys Targaryen."

The weaselly Prince, who'd seemed to have gained several stone in girth during his years in the Vale, rose upon his knees, and Sansa saw in his eyes traces of the same base fear and panic she'd seen by the banks of the Blackwater, when she'd been possessed into pardoning him for making war upon her lands. And promising to marry him, by the Gods, how foolish had she been!

"I forgive you," this king of hers proclaimed magnanimously, and the court broke out in polite applause.

_Were you all here to see them lift him into the chair,_ she thought, _you'd think far less of this man you're so eager to call your King._

The stray prince stepped meekly up to the throne, and placed a kiss upon his brother's hand. Rhaegar then pressed two fingers against the crown of his skull, as if he could anoint his brother back into princedom and more ludicrously, into a man worthy of such a title.

_Good. They deserve each other, these accursed dragonspawn._

"Lord Tyrell," he called from her throne, as Viserys dutifully stepped back down to join the throng. "Lord Kevan Lannister."

The two base old men, the two arch traitors stepped forward, bending the knee more obsequiously than they'd ever done for her.

"I have proclaimed to my new Hand and High Septon," Rhaegar nodded to Randyll Tarly and the old Sparrow who'd spat insults upon her by the ruins of the Sept, "my gratitude for their support for the restoration of House Targaryen to its rightful Throne. Be it that such restoration came not by war or conquest, but through the invitation of the lords of Westeros, who speak for the people, and the warriors for the Seven, who speak for the people _and_ the Gods, as King, I must acknowledge my debt and obligations to those I owe my crown to."

Gripping tightly the two hands of the chair, Rhaegar forced himself upright, knees shaking as he somehow miraculously managed to stay upright on his own, holding onto the Iron Throne for dear life.

_Fall, my dear betrothed, please do, and slit your wrists upon that thing like Maegor the Cruel._

"From this day forward, the Crown will be no exception to the tenets of the Faith, as laid down in the Seven Pointed Star. Incest will be banned, between brother and sister, between fathers and daughters, uncles and nieces, even cousins once separated, unless an special dispensation is written by the High Septon himself."

More applause, this time most fervently from the crowd of Sparrows, beggars, vagrants, and thieves, who'd followed their leader into the very Throne Room. Their robes looked bright and to be newly washed, or sown, but the former High Sparrow, now Rhaegar's High Septon, still appeared as if he'd just emerged unwashed from several fortnights wandering the Red Wastes of far Essos.

With a huff, Rhaegar collapsed back into his seat.

"I have two siblings, yet unwed. My sister Daenerys sails for the capital as we speak. When she arrives, Lord Kevan, I will give my blessings for her marriage with your son, Lord Lancel, the heir to Casterly Rock."

_Wonder what Lord Tyrion would think of all this, if they hadn't already killed him along with Arya out in Dorne._

"Your Grace," the traitor sang so smoothly, "my son has repented and learned the error of his ways. He understands the grave responsibility he will inherit, leading the Westerlands one day. He will devote himself to his studies, to repentance and to the Faith, and he will serve as the most dutiful husband to the Princess Daenerys, and most dutiful lord and servant to his wisest King."

Rhaegar nodded, and the Lannister bootlicker stepped back into the procession, leaving only Margaery's father.

"Lord Mace, the Reach remained true to my father in the Usurper's Rebellion. And it was your vassal lord who safeguarded the city first by his arms, then through his wisest statecraft. Tell me, my good man. Would your daughter accept, were I to offer her my wayward brother's hand in marriage?"

_Gods, he's blushing, I do believe._

"Your Grace, my daughter Margaery would give seven thanks to this most undeserved and unexpected blessing."

"Then it is done," Rhaegar agreed happily. "The weddings of the Prince and Princess will take place after the union between King and Queen."

More rapturous applause. _No Tully's, no Arryns, no Starks except us prisoners. _ Maybe it was appropriate, she thought, for the families who'd hogged all the power since her father's rebellion to now have their turn to be frozen entirely out of it.

"My good Lord High Septon."

"Not a lord," the old man mumbled in his infuriating manner, "just a humble servant of the Gods."

"You served the Gods well," Rhaegar said, in a tone that suggested his piety was as false as the Sparrow's own twisted preachings. "You reminded the seven kingdoms of our shortcomings, from King, to Queen, to peasant. Too many paid the price for our sins, and so we must act to right ourselves, as a country. I proclaim today then, the reinstatement of the Faith Militant, warriors for the Seven, to spread forth the goodwill of the Gods throughout the realm, on behalf of, and under the authority of the Most Faithful Crown of the Seven Kingdoms."

It took her even more control to not scream in rage at this pronouncement, thus far the only new proclamation of the new King's that she'd been previously unaware of. How many lords from King's Landing to Dorne to Casterly Rock had their mistresses and bastards, yet the only sinner this High Sparrow ever raged against was herself? How many little girls would have to suffer, would have to act as perfectly obedient little wives to their lecherous lord husbands, now that Rhaegar would have his Faith Militant roaming the land looking for sinners to persecute?

_It doesn't make sense. I thought he kept to the Red God._

Much as Sansa had tried to ignore him during that first conversation between future husband and wife, she'd remembered his oddest mention of a High Priestess of Volantis he'd kept to. With little left to do now that she was merely a consort, she'd found her way to the library later that day, and looked up several books describing the religions and customs of the Free Cities. Many of them, Volantis in particular, worshiped a god of fire named R'hilor, or the Lord of Light, as this God, whose religion Rhaegar seemed so intent on spreading, was often referred to by the commonfolk.

_He keeps to the Red God, yet he courts the support of the Sparrows._

_This is a weakness, something I can use._

The ceremonies over, Sansa was the first to leave, walking indignantly as she was wont towards her chambers, when a hand pulled her aside.

"Lord Renly?"

His expression looked unperturbed, as it always did when he served her father once. Renly had not betrayed her, though he'd never had a chance to, and Sansa wondered whether he would have voted with the Tarly's had he remained in her Councils.

"Your Grace."

She tried smiling as genuinely as she could. "Come to seek the blessings of our wonderful new King?"

"To receive the blessings for the Lady Shireen, and ensure to her safety as she travels back to her home in Storm's End."

Her own expression softened. The Queen was not the only woman in the Keep who had suffered, and lost a parent.

"I understand."

Not that there was much Renly could do anyway, he was merely a castellan after all, and Shireen a younger girl than her, neither one the most likely candidates to raise a rebellion in her name.

"I hope you do understand, Your Grace." His eyes shifted carefully, subtly but just enough to catch Sansa's attention. "Storm's End must remain loyal to our new King. But we do not forget our Queen, not in the lands of Robert Baratheon, who was a brother to your father, or Lord Stannis, who served your family so loyally for twenty years. You have friends in the south, Your Grace, who will watch over you, should you ever need them."

He left without awaiting her response, and avoiding the temptation to visit Petyr in the Black Cells, Sansa stumbled back into her chambers deep in thought, trying to calculate in her mind what significance Renly's words may bear. Her solace was brief, before she was interrupted again by Rhaegar and his pitiful entourage of old and ball-less men.

"Where's Connington," she spat. "If you're going to gloat, might as well gloat together."

_Hold your tongue, Sansa, control yourself, remember! If you want to beat them, you have to make them believe you're defeated._

"I understand he upsets you." No matter what she spat at him, Rhaegar remained so infuriatingly calm.

"He stole my father's sword."

"He won it fairly in battle. I'd take it from him, but he's served me loyally, and I can't punish him for his success. But if it's any consolation to you, my Queen, I'll try and keep him away from you as much I can."

_He won dirty,_ Sansa wanted to scream, but bit her tongue this time. _He never would've beaten father and Robb in a fair fight._

_I'm not your Queen yet, _she also didn't say. _No matter what they say, no matter what that High Sparrow officiates, I'll never be your Queen, not in my heart, not in my soul._

"Why are you here? I don't believe our new High Sep...sorry, Highest Sparrow, would appreciate a man intruding upon the chambers of his betrothed before they've said their vows. Pretty sure there's three whole chapters in the Seven Pointed Star warning against such _venal_ sins."

Again, he ignored her unrestrained barbs, though she thought she detected a hint of amusement from the vile Spider's lips.

"We have a guest," Rhaegar replied rather cryptically. "It's best we receive him in private."

"Who?"

It was the Spider who spoke this time. "It would seem that your friend Lord Tyrion has returned from his exploits in Dorne. And he has quite a song to sing about your most loyal Hand, the Littlefinger."

* * *

**Tyrion**

"A Trant, huh? Don't believe I've ever heard of a Trant in the Queens...sorry, the Kingsguard before."

"Watch yer mouth, Imp," the newly appointed whitecloak snarled at him.

_Interesting quality of men they're bringing in. Rhaegar must be pretty desperate. _ Though he imagined that this new king of his had many favors he owed. After all, it couldn't have been easy, ripping down brick by brick the reign of an innocent young girl.

"It was meant as a compliment," Tyrion insisted, doing his best to sound pleasant.

_Seems like they're in no hurry to get Ser Arys Oakheart out of Dorne anytime soon._ Or the Queen's sister, though Tyrion wondered whether the young girl, who'd cried in his shoulders, having no one else to turn to upon finding out all which transpired in King's Landing, from her mother's death to her sister's deposition, it wouldn't surprise him at all if the Princess Arya was safer in Doran Martell's grasps than Rhaegar's court. He'd gotten to know the Dornishman somewhat in his short tenure at Sunspear, and whatever one might think about the Prince of Dorne, and there were plenty of varying opinions he could hold regarding the man, one thing was certain. Doran Martell was not one for rash decisions, especially as desperate as his position had suddenly become, he would seek to keep as long as he can the goodsister to the new King.

They brought him to Sansa's chambers, where he'd comforted the Queen before this most interesting trip. Sansa Stark sat sullenly to one side, pointedly ignoring the man whom she was to marry in half a fortnight. Her name day had already passed, which meant that she would be ruling on her own by now, had she been not be betrayed by practically every man in her circle. Tyrion could guess too, the identities of the two men who accompanied their rather pathetic looking king.

_To think, Cersei dreamed of marrying this man once. I daresay that for all he drinks, Benjen Stark is twice as dashing as this withered dragon._

His sister was being held at Castle Stokeworth, yet another prisoner of the new King. If the rest of his reign, hopefully short, with any luck, proceeded as it began, they may well remember him as Rhaegar the Hostage Taker.

"Lord Tyrion," Rhaegar said, just as Ser Balon Swann brought into the room a shivering and crying Littlefinger. Tyrion glared at the man, his hatred building up in his heart as much as he'd felt ever for anyone. For sure, Rhaegar and his cronies were evil men, especially this Spider creature, but they'd been evil from a distance. Littlefinger had fooled them all before their very eyes and under their noses, and though he'd never speak it out loud, Tyrion hated him for the fact that he, Petyr Baelish, out of all people, had made him look the worst of dunces.

Then there was the innocent girl whom he had betrayed, whose eyes saddened at the pathetic entrance of her formerly loyal councilor even as she glared at him with suspicion and rightful rage.

"I believe you have come with further proof of Lord Baelish's guilt." Varys looked at the Queen apologetically, as if he actually pitied the girl he'd just worked for years to destroy. "Your former Hand's crimes are rather, sensitive...I'm afraid this will be the only trial he will receive..."

"Because he worked hand in hand with you to destroy a country," Tyrion spoke. It was a good thing he was small, and Lewyn Martell did not seem to care that his tone was most unfriendly to the new regime. "Tell me, Spider, was it you who ordered him to destroy the Sept?"

"I'm afraid he overstepped his instructions on that one," Varys replied, casually disclaiming his own responsibility for the vile crime. "Though, Your Grace, you should know that it was Lord Baelish who plied Ser Lancel into pursuing you, and it was he who obtained your letters and gave them to the Sparrows."

This must have been news to the girl, who looked first at Varys, and then Baelish, with the most heartbreaking tragedy showing in her sad eyes.

_The glorious heir to Casterly Rock, who will fritter away the home and name I've worked so hard to make reputable again._

"I'm so sorry, Sansa," Tyrion whispered, knowing his words were useless, just like all his counsel in his four years serving her. Forcing himself to focus on the matter at hand, he reached inside his shirt under the watchful eyes of Ser Lewyn and brought out a letter. Looking around the room, he decided to hand it to the Littlefinger first.

"Read it," he ordered. Perhaps Petyr Baelish was the last person he could order around now, so he might as well enjoy it.

The man's fingers fumbled around with the parchment, and his manner seemed distant, but a stern strike on his face from Lewyn Martell returned his small eyes onto the matter at hand.

"An agreement was made," Baelish began reading, his voice dry and barely audible, "between the Kingdom of Dorne, House Martell, its ruling family, and the claimant Rhaegar of House Targaryen. Despite his better judgment, despite the actions of the claimant in the past, Prince Doran Martell of Sunspear agreed to support the claimant's claim to the Iron Throne, in exchange for a union between said claimant and the Princess Arianne Martell of Sunspear, daughter to Prince Doran. The agreement has been broken, and neither House Martell nor Dorne, wronged by all the Great Houses of Westeros, has any reason to pay fealty any longer to either House Targaryen, or House Stark. From this day forward, Dorne shall be an independent kingdom, as it was in the days when it defied the dragons of Aegon I Targaryen and his sisters.

If the current claimant to the Iron Throne seeks to subjugate the Kingdom of Dorne like his ancestors, who'd all failed in their ventures, we will remind the Six Kingdoms why our people are_ Unbowed, Unbent, and Unbroken_. We will fight you in the desert, we will fight you on our beaches, and we will fight you with our words. We will tell the world of all we know, the _truth_, of the trustworthiness of House Targaryen, who continued to make war against House Stark and its allies even when the claimant swore before the Gods a peace with Queen Sansa I Stark. We will tell of how all the curses which plagued the land and suffered the people had been inflicted by the claimant and his allies, including the eunuch Varys, and Lord...Petyr Baelish, who would have both the Houses Stark and Targaryen believe in his loyalty to them. And we will tell them the secret, which will be relayed to your ears by Lord Tyrion of House Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock."

"Forgive that last part," Tyrion said, after Baelish had finished, "Prince Doran wrote this before any of us learned of my...demotion."

The Spider took the letter from Baelishs' hands, examined it, and then remarked to his king. "It bears the signature and seal of House Martell. I do believe that this is genuine. Nor am I surprised that Prince Doran would have reason to resent us, though I know not of what secret he could be speaking of."

"Tell us, dwarf," Rhaegar ordered rudely.

First, he looked again to Sansa. "I'm sorry, Your Grace. What I'm about to say will be upsetting to you in many ways. It is the truth, however, and considering all the lies which had been said to you all these years, I'm afraid you'll have to learn how to accept the truth, awful as it seems to be so often."

Sansa nodded in resigned understanding.

Taking a deep breath, Tyrion spoke. "What is known to all of us here is that Prince Doran wanted his daughter Arianne to marry Robb Stark, and sit beside him as his Queen. It is also known that Prince Robb spurned the girl, though not without bedding her first, then sailing to Storm's End, where he became betrothed to the Lady Margaery Tyrell in short order."

He looked accusingly to Baelish.

"What isn't know is that it was Lord Baelish who'd urged Prince Doran in convincing his daughter Arianne in seducing the young Prince Robb, on a night in which Prince Doran had plied him with ample drink, taking advantage of the boy's weakness. Prince Doran believed that Robb Stark's sense of honor would compel him to ask his father to betroth him to the Princess, especially once he learned that he'd gotten the girl with child."

They all gasped at this news, except Littlefinger, who probably knowing his game was finished for good, seemed finally too weary to even feign ignorance before them.

"Seems none of this was known to you, save Lord Baelish. What wasn't known to Prince Doran, not at first, anyway, was that it had been Lord Baelish who'd arranged with Mace Tyrell for his daughter Margaery to visit a relation at Storm's End, shortly before the Prince's arrival. It was Lord Baelish who whispered to the fair lady to seduce Prince Robb, that he'd always loved her in secret, urging her to seal the betrothal before the two soon to be young lovers departed Storm's End. Naturally, this was a grave insult to Prince Doran, yet he was still hesitant to trust Rhaegar Targaryen, a man who'd already betrayed his Martell wife once before.

It was then Lord Baelish sailed to Sunspear, purportedly to help Ned Stark make peace, purportedly to help Rhaegar make war. It was he who convinced Prince Doran to betray them both. Marry Arianne to the dragon, he told Prince Doran. Betray the Starks, raise the Rhaegar to the Iron Throne, and once the Targaryens held King's Landing, Lord Baelish, with the gratitude of his new King, would help the young Princess learn the ways of the court, making allies for her in all seven kingdoms. The Princess Arianne would bear Rhaegar's child. After which, once it was agreed that she would be ready, the Lord Baelish would arrange to have King Rhaegar murdered, probably by poison, Doran guessed, at which point Queen Arianne would reign over all Seven Kingdoms as Regent for her Targaryen Prince of a son.

This would leave the fate of the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms solely in the hands of House Martell. Queen Arianne could choose to keep her Targaryen child on the throne, _as_ a Targaryen. Unlikely, probably. She could reveal and legitimize her bastard son with Robb Stark, naming him, being her elder child, the heir to the Stark dynasty, thus ending once and for all the Targaryen dynasty which has wrecked such suffering and grief upon Prince Doran and his family. More likely, however, the Queen Dowager could have named either child a Martell, by the laws of Dorne, whichever one she favored, really, and thus establish for House Martell their new dynasty upon the Iron Throne."

He stopped, out of breath from speaking, and though it continued to sadden him the chagrined look on the Queen, understanding just how out of her depth that not just she, but her entire family, council, and regime, had been at the hands of its traitors, Tyrion could not help but note with glee at the same time at the looks of embarrassment on the faces of Rhaegar and his spider, who'd been so nearly outmaneuvered by the man they held prisoner now.

"The only question is, really, one which has puzzled me this entire journey from Sunspear back to King's Landing." He turned towards Littlefinger. "What exactly did _you _want, Lord Baelish?"

It was the Queen who spoke first. "Me." They looked at each other, and Tyrion raged that there was nothing he could do for this girl, a rightful queen and yet prisoner in her own home.

"He wanted me," she continued. "If he's as clever as you all make him to be, then I imagine Lord Baelish would have known full well his leash holders would not have approved of the destruction of the Sept, well as all those deaths served his masters. But he never intended to face the consequences when it came. He would have taken me to the Vale. He would have the last war, Lord Tyrion, had you not been present, and Viserys had taken the city. There he would have raised the banners of the Vale for me, declared war on the Iron Throne, won seven kingdoms back for me, and won himself my undying loyalty and gratitude..."

"Sansa, it's not true..."

"I suppose I'd owe him a seat on the Small Council for life," the Queen continued, ignoring him. "He'd probably expected me to make him Lord Paramount of some kingdom or another. Maybe even marry me, and rule the country beside me..."

Her voice trailed off, and the Queen's eyes disappeared into herself, as if her tongue had understood before her mind the heaviest implications of Baelish's betrayal.

"And here's Prince Doran's threat," Tyrion said, addressing Rhaegar again. "Leave Dorne in peace, and he will keep secret the heir to King Eddard's firstborn son. Make war, and as sovereign Prince of the Kingdom of Dorne, he will legitimize and then champion the claim of Joffrey Stark to the Iron Throne."

"It's a war he can never win," Varys muttered, though this assurance did not seem to please the Spider.

"No, but it's a war your king can lose, once all the truth comes out...including the truth about the Sept."

"You will not speak of it," Rhaegar screeched suddenly, a fervor in his eyes that Tyrion had not seen before. His chest heaving, the King seemed to calm, though when he continued speaking, his words maintained their inherent threat. "Lord Randyll will take your sister and her children to Horn Hill. They will be held there, treated with all courtesies. But say a word of any of this to anyone, _Imp_, and you'll watch them die yourself."

_Not so different from your father, are you?_

_Perhaps all Targaryen coins eventually land the same way._

"Will you keep me a hostage here too? Send me to Casterly Rock, under the care of _Lord_ Lancel?"

It seemed the new King was not a man of humor. "You made war against your rightful King. Your treachery at the Battle of King's Landing has been punished in our history before, the fate befit for a traitor. But I will be merciful. I will allow you to join your father and brother upon the Wall, so long as you swear to never say a word of what you've learned in Dorne, or of Lord Baelish's treasons."

It was this moment in which Tyrion realized that he hated Rhaegar Targaryen as much as he did the Littlefinger.

_Fuck the world, fuck my sister, fuck my life..._

But her children..._Jaime's_ children, Tyrion had a strong suspicion...

It was only then when he'd noticed the Queen staring intently at him, nodding her head, silently begging him to obey and accept the demands of his new king, though whether it was out of duty, or concern for her cousins, Tyrion knew not.

_The Gods bless this poor girl, wherever they are._

"Your Grace can at least send me north with a few good coats."

* * *

**Sansa**

"He betrayed me," Rhaegar said coldly, once the whitecloaks escorted Lord Tyrion out of her chambers. "He betrayed the Martells. But he betrayed you the most. You may choose how he dies."

"How generous," Sansa muttered out loud. At this moment, she thought more of the man who'd remain loyal to her, rather than the one who'd betrayed her. Yet what reward did Lord Tyrion receive for his loyalty, for winning the last war for her, except the same punishment his father and brother had received for slaying an evil King and massacring his innocent relations.

_Maybe my father was wrong. Maybe it's a good thing Lord Tywin ordered the dragonspawn murdered. Elia Martell may be a tragedy, but her children would have grown up to be monsters like their father._

_Jon is Rhaegar's son too._

"We should have Lord Baelish executed before the city," Sansa said, staring her former Hand in the eye. He wanted to further plead to her, she knew, but she knew that he knew her too well that once she'd finally had knowledge of the truth, nothing he said would be able to satiate the heart of a wolf.

"A valiant attempt, girl," Varys replied with a wink, "so you can convince your devoted servant to confess his...relationships...with King Rhaegar, one last chance to make good upon his betrayal?" The Spider turned to his master. "Unlikely, Your Grace, but not worth the risk."

"What I said to the Half Man I'll say to you now," Rhaegar said, calmness transitioned to fury within the span of seconds. "_You will not_ say a word of any of this to anyone, not even your brothers, do you hear me girl?"

"Or what," Sansa erupted. "Is the truth so shocking for His Grace? Is it so horrible that his peoples know the truth of how he obtained his crown? The High Sparrow would have torn me limb from limb, yet my only secret was that I had love for a man who deserved not my love. What happens if..."

"Your brothers will die," the Spider interrupted her sternly. "Do you want their blood on your hands?"

_You will die. You will both die. One day, you will both die, because of me. And you will both suffer horribly, before you die._

"The blood of thousands lie upon your hands, same as they do Littlefingers..."

"They do not," Rhaegar protested, "we never told him..."

"They burned," she interrupted him. Then, turning her fiery gaze towards the man she believed a beloved uncle, directing all her hatred at him, real as it was, so as to distract from them her hatred for her captors, Sansa thought about her heart's desire. She would have wanted to see Baelish flayed, to avenge the Boltons, her own people, fellow Northerners, innocent men, good men, whose names and lives had been forever snuffed because of _the Littlefinger._

Yet, even as the truth consumed her heart, she could not forget how she trusted him, how she loved him as practically her own family.

_You must play it smart. You must remember your plan...you must have a plan, and you must sacrifice everything you have towards your plan._

_Rhaegar serves the red God of fire. Let his allies the Sparrows see it truly, let all Seven Kingdoms see it._

"He should burn too," Sansa concluded, as Baelish recoiled from her in horror. "He should suffer the same fate of so many innocents and good men of the Gods he made suffer."

It was far too kind of a death from what the Littlefinger deserved, but the Queen figured that this was to be the first of many compromises she would have to make, for the sake of her revenge.


	19. Interlude: Shootingstar

**Sansa**

"Go, wife. Make this peace, and I will be in your gratitude."

_Oh, what a valiant king, who sits by the gate while he bids his wife to make parley._

The Queen Consort rode forth towards the banners of the mother's family, recognizing the man sitting unsteadily upon his black steed as her uncle Edmure, whom she'd not seen since she'd been a child. It had taken some time, but enough banners had been gathered apparently for their procession down the King's Road, where they met now the King's men at Sow's Horn. While the banners ahead were many, a comforting sight, Sansa did not forget overhearing Ser Lewyn, who'd taken Ser Courtnay's place as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, saying that they still outnumbered the Tully armies by nearly three thousand men.

"My Queen," Edmure bowed his head, surrounded on either side by two of his knights, a Blackwood, Sansa recognized by his armor, and a Frey, probably one of her uncle's many new goodbrothers. "Your mother summoned me to your aid. I apologize I answered the call far too late. I see that you have been betrayed and captured by the usurper, but ride with me now, our camp will be your sanctuary, and today marks the day we truly renew the war against your enemies."

His fingers shook as he spoke, and Sansa did her best to give her uncle her most comely smile. In a way, perhaps it was better his late arrival. Knowing now the actual intentions of the Tarly's, had her uncle arrived at King's Landing coinciding with the traitors, Randyll Tarly may well have routed them, in the name of his proper Queen, of course, or found a way to poison or undermine Edmure in one way or another, the result being yet another death rewarded to the family of her mother and grandfather's.

"Lord Edmure, your loyalty and faithfulness to the Crown is to be admired. Your fealty to the Crown will be rewarded. But there is no war, my husband Rhaegar took his crown most lawfully, by the assent of the lords and the sovereign powers granted to the Regency Council. I am his wife by law...and by heart. I beg of you, uncle, let us avoid further war and bloodshed where there needs none be. Stand down your banners. Return home, and let your men prepare their homes and families for winter. King Rhaegar understands your devotion, that you marched in the capital in good faith, believing yourself to be in the right. He will forgive your actions, and those of your bannermen, so long as this field remains unsullied by blood at the end of the day."

This had not been the response her uncle had been expecting. He looked uneasily at the two lords beside him, wondering why his royal niece, in such desperate need of rescue, had not run panicked into his arms. "Queen Sansa...I don't understand. Rhaegar Targaryen is a criminal. While the Targaryens have long been the enemies of both your father's family and your mother's, at least Prince Viserys was merely a child, while his brother Rhaegar raped and abducted your aunt Lyanna. How can you live with this, with...marrying the man your father would have slain without a second thought, the man who's responsible for your father's death?"

_Believe me you, uncle, no need to further remind me._

"I have been assured that King Rhaegar loved my aunt Lyanna." She was careful to say this as an opinion, which she could change, rather than establishing as a fact the alleged words of the High Septon's diary, discovered so many years after the man conveniently died during the Lannister sack of King's Landing. "Many mistakes were made and many...miscommunications created the tragedy that resulted in my father's rebellion."

It was as far as she could stomach of her own tongue insisting upon Rhaegar's "innocence" that first war.

"Your Grace," Edmure stuttered, looking even more nervously to his bannermen. _You'll thank me one day, when you realized how I saved you from disaster and defeat this day._ "I...you don't realize the _difficulty_ I've had in rallying this army for you. I've had to marry a...a fair lady of House Frey," he looked amicably at the Frey knight, careful not to offend the man with his apparent distaste for the match after the fact.

"Then be assured that your Queen offers you her fairest blessings for your marriage. Go home to your wife, I bid you, Lord Edmure, and look after her, as all your bannermen look after their own. I have my duty beside my husband now, I carry his child, and the heir to both our houses. My two brothers _reside_ in the Red Keep, at King Rhaegar's _mercy_, and I am most happy to have all my family by my side, without further burdening my good and faithful uncle."

_Yet the valiant knight sends me out before the battle. Rape or not, is this why aunt Lyanna died on her birthing bed, under his so called care?_

Thankfully it had only take one night with her husband to get her with child. The most Sansa could say on Rhaegar's behalf was that he did not further force relations between the two, not that his body stood in the best shape for such activities. Immobile, his ugly legs twisted and scarred, all her beloved king could do was lie lamely on the bed while Sansa grit her teeth and went through the motions atop the old lecher, praying for him to finish the deed as soon as he physically could. It was justice, she figured, if Rhaegar had indeed been lying about his professed love for Lyanna, in that the man was certainly in no shape to force himself upon another woman ever again, though Sansa would personally prefer it if he were castrated first before she slit his throat.

"Your Grace," the Blackwood lord said with a polite nod to Edmure, "I met your brothers, both of them, I was present in King's Landing when Prince Rickon was presented, and I wish the best for them. Bran is, close to marriageable age now, isn't he?"

"The former Prince of Dragonstone," Sansa said, yet another of her family's titles usurped, this time by Viserys, "is three and ten years of age, so I'm assured that a betrothal will be considered in a few years."

"Well, we all look forward to that day, don't we? And for Prince Rickon's betrothal also."

"Thank you, Lord Blackwood," Sansa said knowingly, figuring that the man, Tytos, his name was, had a better understanding as to their situation. "I _appreciate_ your sentiments, I truly do. And as a token of my gratitude, I'd love to invite my good friends to the capital, dine with you further, but the city is still fragile after everything."

After everything Rhaegar did. And Baelish. He'd screamed, oh how he'd screamed and cried in agony, when they'd lit the fires beneath his feet. She should have enjoyed it more, she should have concentrated her thoughts on how nearly everything bad that's happened in her life, Father, Robb, even mother, in a way, had been the Littlefinger's fault. Yet even in the end Sansa hadn't been able to shake off entirely in her heart the trust she'd once held for the man, the love even, from a familial standpoint, for someone who'd been always there for her, even though her mind understood they'd all been in the worst of ways.

"Your Grace," Edmure said, rearing his horse with a disappointed look on his face, not understanding that by yielding he was saving his own life. Though she couldn't say what she truly wanted to say, Sansa could only hope he'd come to know soon enough, whether through his own eventual understanding, or the counsel of his vassal lords, that their war wasn't finished, merely paused, until it one day became a winnable one, somehow, someway.

"He won't give us trouble," Jon Connington grumbled while she rode back into the Targaryen camp, and Sansa thought that if it were up to him rather than his king, the man would go ahead and slaughter an enemy willingly retreating.

"My uncle understands his duty to his King and Queen," Sansa said coldly, fixing her eyes onto the bald crown of his head rather than the hilt where his sword hung, "and his Queen's orders were as clear as she could make them."

Perhaps she should have given more thought as to how she could have handled the situation more advantageously to herself. But her head did hurt, her entire body really, because Sansa hadn't lied about carrying Rhaegar's child. And short of somehow hinting in front of all of Rhaegar's generals that Tytos Blackwood should sneak into the Keep and rescue her brothers, then ride to Horn Hill and take her aunt Cersei and three cousins back to Winterfell, then sail to Sunspear and bring Arya's Needle within striking distance of Rhaegar's throat, there hadn't much of an alternative on what else she could have further conveyed to the Riverlords.

_Hurry up and let me bear the damned child, so my mind can think again._

* * *

**Rhaegar**

"Theon, is it?"

"And his sister Yara," Varys said, arriving at their camp after the Tully banners had already marched away, armed with yet more letters telling of the rather troubled state of his realms. "I'd expect them to come seek us out, sooner or later, in support of their cause."

"And?"

"Our agreement was with their father. Not with the children, and not with Balon's brother. It would do us no good to interfere into the family affairs of the Iron Islands...particularly when there's little they can offer us for our support."

"What if we assist them against Euron Greyjoy, give them lordship over the Iron Islands, but only on the condition that they give up their crown?"

"The crown _we_ gave them, that _we_ agreed to recognize for _all_ perpetuity?" The Spider did not seem to eager for the idea. "Not the worst idea, Your Grace...certainly it wasn't our intention to allow the Iron Islands to raid us at will over the next thousand years. And were the rest of your kingdoms more whole than they are now..."

"Nothing back from the Eyrie then?"

"Worse," Varys replied sadly, handing him another scroll, speaking while his King's eyes grazed upon the grim news. "Following the example of Dorne, Lady Lysa Tully has proclaimed her son King of the Mountain and Vale, declaring their lands independent as it was, in the days before the dragons."

How did his father do this? At least the Mad King had men such as Tywin Lannister to watch over their shoulder, much less straighter traitors such as the Starks and Robert Baratheon.

"The Eyrie would be more difficult to take than even Dorne," Connington opined.

"Not a wise target for us to make direct war with," Varys agreed.

Rhaegar knew his spider well enough to understand the inference. "Indirect war then?"

Varys nodded. "I'll see what I can gather of the men who've sworn fealty to their new king past the Bloody Gate. Oh, and one last letter for Your Grace to peruse."

There was something to the Spider's eyes that sparkled, indicating that this could be news he'd actually like for a change. The King took the parchment and read it carefully.

"A rider from Winterfell...," he muttered.

_My son._

"They're several days past Castle Darry," he said, his back shifting up high in his seat. "Ser Lewyn, we ride tonight."

"How many of our men ought we spare," Connington asked.

"None," Rhaegar answered, shaking his head vehemently. "It won't do to scare him away, bringing an entire army. We'll go alone."

"Are you sure, Your Grace?"

"This could be an ambush," Connington persisted, agreeing with the Spider. "A trick by Edmure Tully, or even his sister."

_Must they constantly remind me of my many enemies, when I have enough trouble forgetting them on my own accord?_

"Doubtful," Rhaegar answered firmly. "Not when we hold the Queen, and so many of her kin."

"At least let me bring fifty good men to accompany you," the restored Lord of Griffin's Roost insisted. Connington would not let it rest, he'd argue forever, Rhaegar knew, especially where it concerned the safety of his King.

"Twenty," Rhaegar relented. "And they'll stay behind," he ordered after the fact. "Much will need to be discussed...I must have my discretion with him."

* * *

**Young Ned**

Lord Beric was a decent liar. Ned had never seen his uncle by marriage lie before, but then he'd never the need. They'd been at war for so long, and it was with the sword and lance in which they fought their enemies, whether Rhaegar's armies, or their remnants after the rebellion, or the assorted and never ending array of bandits which would plague the villages and countryside until long after he and Beric died. But his uncle had warned him, before their meeting with the Tarly host leaving King's Landing, to forget their oaths they'd made with Renly Baratheon by the banks of the Wendwater.

Because the Tarly's were as much their enemies, in secret of course, as Rhaegar Targaryen and his Spider, if not more so.

"...I remember travelling to Horn Hill once, Lady Cersei. I was merely a lad younger than my squire, Lord Edric here, but I remember it being a grand manor, with beautiful gardens..."

"Yes, I'm sure it'll make the prettiest of cages," the Queen's aunt said dismissively, rolling her eyes, her thin arms cradling the youngest of her children, a girl no older than eight, with the dark hair he'd expect for a Stark.

In truth, though Ned had not lied, he'd not told Beric the truth either, that once he'd heard about this particular procession, he'd been secretly very eager about it, losing sleep each of the last four nights. Nodding politely to the other Stark children riding south to be held as hostages for Gods knew how long, a pretty golden haired girl and a nice fair haired boy, none with a red mane like their cousin the Queen, Ned noticed, the young Lord of Starfall rode towards the rear of the caravan, trying to not make it too obvious as he peered without turning his head into the windows of each wheelhouse. Luckily, the march soon came to a stop, servants exited to light fires to cook suppers for knights and hostages alike, and a young girl in a dark brown dress stepped out of one of the wheelhouses he'd ridden past earlier.

"Lady Talla!"

To his disappointment, the girl startled when he called her name, her dark eyes looking him up and down as if he were a stranger.

"Seven blessings to you, good Ser..."

"Oh, I'm not a Ser yet," Ned said, his voice wavering before the girl in ways his sword never did in battle. "Far from it...you don't remember me, Talla?"

Again her studied him in bafflement, until they finally fell upon his armor, and the sigil upon his breastplate. Placing her hands upon her cheeks, Talla Tarly gave a delighted shriek, before quickly restraining herself again.

"Edric? Edric Dayne?"

"Ned," he replied with a nervous chuckle. "Edric sounds so fancy."

"As it _should_ be, for the Lord of Starfall!"

Hesitatingly, she approached him, and wrapped her arms around the back of Ned's neck for the quickest of hugs, before pulling away.

"You've grown quite tall! Gosh, how many years has it been, since that tourney at Blackmont?"

"Nearly six." He'd been a boy of eight then, the feasts at the castle up the Torrentine had been one of his last truly happy memories, before the sickness took both his parents, and before he'd been thrust into a life of war and camp and riding between the one and the other.

"And you're quite a soldier, I hear," Talla gasped. "Oh, father would love to have you marching with him, he's having quite a difficult time with it all in the capital."

Beric told him Randyll Tarly was a traitor. Brienne believed this too. It was time for Ned to lie, as uncomfortable as it made him. Or at least try doing so. "I can't believe your father's the Hand to the King. It must be quite the honor."

"Oh it is," Talla replied. "And I'm to marry Loras Tyrell, have you heard?!"

Instantly, he reached over to hug the older girl, because in the briefest of moments Ned had been cognizant enough to know that he could not hide from her the disappointment in his face, and that he did not want her to see it either.

"Oh Talla, I'm so happy for you. I hear the Knight of Flowers is the greatest swordsman in all Seven Kingdoms, the next Ser Barristan the Bold, they say!"

"Oh, I doubt Ser Barristan is as handsome as he. And to think, father had been thinking of betrothing me to a _Fossoway_, before his appointment!"

By that time, he'd already pulled away from yet another fleeting embrace, and though he'd regained his countenance, his face couldn't help but flinch once more at her words gushing over her new betrothed.

"Well, I'm happy for you regardless," he replied, trying not to breath too hard.

"Oh, I'm just so glad to see you again, Lord Edric, it's been far too long!" She looked around, a few of her handmaidens setting up a ring of stools next to a fire. "Won't you join us for supper?"

The invitation no longer sounded as grand as it would have minutes before, and Ned looked around nervously. "I should return to Lord Beric, I don't want him to worry that I've wandered off somewhere."

"Well come find me," Talla said with a giggle that seemed to stir up his entire body, starting from his toes and working its way up, "once Lord Beric is assured he hasn't lost his squire."

He managed to hold back his dejected sigh until he found himself within sight of Lord Beric again.

_Not just any knight, but the Knight of Flowers. And I'm just a dumb squire. _ Thus one more reason for him to bemoan Randyll Tarly's treason, and subsequent ascension.

_Just how would she feel about you, if you do have to make war against her father one day?_

* * *

"I talked to one of the Hightower boys," Beric said by the fire, as the sun set once more upon another day where it'd been cold before it'd been dark.

"Which one," Ned asked, doing what he could to hold a straight face, to pretend to care about the politics of it all, the only reason they'd met the Tarly's in the first place. "There's so many of them, hard to keep track of it."

"Don't I know it," Beric laughed, before lowering his voice. "Theobald, one of Lord Baelor's sons. It appears that it will be his uncle Humfrey will man the defenses of Horn Hill, with most of the Tarly bannermen north at the capital indefinitely."

Ned glanced around too, looking to see if there were any prying eyes, or ears, eager to hear of their conversation, though he figured that Beric had long taken such precautions before he'd first spoke. "All the Hightower men?"

"Some. Five hundred, at least, he thinks."

"All to guard a lady and her three children?"

Beric sighed. "It's not that much. But enough to hold in a brief siege. So long as they can send a raven to King's Landing, I don't imagine it'd be long before Lord Randyll can march with what Rhaegar can spare him."

"We can muster more, perhaps. Especially if Lady Brienne can be sure of the Grandisons, they're no friends to Jon Connington, after all. Still, a siege...unless, if our numbers are better used attacking Randyll Tarly directly. So attacking Horn Hill would be a way to lure him south, to a place where we'd have the advantage in terrain...wouldn't it?"

Was he practicing lying to Lord Beric now, contemplating so seriously as to how to make war against the Tarly's? Or was he lying to himself, forcing his heart to extinguish old flames.

"Aye," Beric said, unaware of his troubled mind, so it would appear he was lying well enough. If indeed he was lying. "You take well to war, Ned. Maybe you'll be a natural at it. It's not a good thing...but it's what's needed, during these troubled times."

An inadvertent look towards a nearby fire, and Beric noticed, so it would appear not all his thoughts were escaping his attention.

"I saw you speaking to the Lady Talla earlier this evening."

Ned nodded. "I knew her from when we were children. We sang songs together. Jenny of Oldstones. And she played the lute wonderfully too."

He wondered if she could still sing like she had, when she'd been young. When Talla spoke today, her voice still rang to his ears the most perfect of notes, and Ned remembered how he'd asked his mother to learn the harp, so he and Talla could play the most beautiful of music together, once they met again. That child could have never envisioned these circumstances, Ned thought sadly, so many years later.

"You still know her well?"

"Not well," Ned admitted. "Though we're a bit more acquainted after today than before."

"You ought to get even more acquainted with the lady," Beric whispered, though he sounded the most serious, and Ned could guess as to why. "Perhaps you can _continue_ a friendly correspondence with Lady Talla, after we leave back to the marches, and she for Horn Hill."

"I should go speak to her now," Ned asked, though he realized that his permission had already been granted.

Beric chuckled. "Only if you can still remember the words to your songs."

He did. But Ned wondered whether he could ever sing to her, pure of voice and heart, ever again.

* * *

**Arya**

"Pass me a chicken leg please."

"You're going to eat all the chickens in the palace," Andrey Dalt protested.

Arya Stark, Princess of the realm and captive of the rogue Prince rebelling against the man who had usurped her sister's throne, shrugged her shoulders.

"You'll get fat," Andrey said, a friendly, teasing smile upon the boy's face. "Prince Quentyn would never want to marry you then."

"Good." Impatient, she reached into the pot and grabbed the object of her desires. The young man whom she sat with tried to stop her, but she was too quick for him, as usual. "Maybe I'll eat through all of Dorne's gold," she said, after taking a satisfying chomp of the meaty piece of thigh, "and they'll be forced to send me back to Westeros."

Not that Arya actually wanted that. The night before Tyrion left, she'd begged him, nay, ordered the Half Man to help her, to hide her on a ship, and smuggle her back to her sister and family, what remained of it anyway.

_"Give Rhaegar another captive?"_

_"I'll kill Rhaegar," Arya had snarled._

_"You can't," the dwarf replied sadly. "You're one girl. And even if by a miracle of the Gods you do so, you'd probably only end up making my uncle Kevan king. Or Randyll Tarly, for the matter. And all your siblings will die alongside you."_

_"Am I supposed to just give up?"_

_The dwarf looked at her thoughtfully for some time before making up his mind._

_"No. Not if I were you. Not if I've been as badly wronged as you have, as your family has been. I can only counsel you patience. Dorne is probably the safest place for you to reside right now, this side of Moat Cailin, anyhow. And you must remember, Sansa's new husband is now Prince Doran's enemy as well as yours..."_

_"He plotted to kill my father," Arya snapped. She'd kill the crippled traitor of Dorne first, before killing the crippled traitor who'd forcibly married her sister._

_"It would not be the first alliance made out of reasons of convenience only," Tyrion said gently, not reacting in the least towards her wrath, "and not the last. I assure you, Prince Doran is thinking the same thing; that's the only reason he means to keep you here."_

_"You're saying," Arya asked, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together in her mind, "he'd make war against Rhaegar one day?"_

_"Or Rhaegar against Dorne. It'll happen sooner or later, I'd reckon." Again the dwarf paused. "Don't give your needle immediately to Doran Martell. Not until you're sure it can help your sister."_

She wondered what would've happened had they let Syrio accompany her on this trip. Arya hoped her dancing master was faring well back in the capital. There hadn't been word of any executions with the change in crowns, so he was probably safe, but it did sadden her that the new king had probably sent the man back to Braavos. Part of her hoped that her faithful teacher would sail south instead, and rescue her. But then, she could hear Tyrion chiding her in her mind, what could two do against seven entire kingdoms?

This was why she liked Andrey Dalt. All the Lannister men, including scarred dog Clegane, had sailed away with Lord Tyrion. Sers Arys Oakheart and Lymond Lynderly, the two Queensguard who'd accompanied them south, had been sent to stay separately at the Water Gardens and Lemonwood, respectively, leaving her alone in a castle full of hostile strangers. So at least Andrey sparred with her, and the older boy was good enough to beat her most of the time. Prince Quentyn was even older, yet he'd found himself on the ground within minutes the first time Arya had convinced him for a match in the gardens, and Doran's eldest son had avoided her ever since, a relief for both of them, Arya figured.

"I have to piss."

"Go do it then," Andrey muttered impatiently. He'd been enjoying his wine tonight, and seemed ready to fall asleep. She's caught more than once the young knight awake with a startle, after his head had just plopped drunkenly into a nearby fountain.

Arya looked hesitantly towards the nearest privy, where a bevy of girls they called the Sand Snakes stood guard, eyeing her with hostile eyes.

"I don't think they like me."

Yawning, Andrey pointed to a small garden nearby, fenced in by hedges taller than Areo Hotah. "Go there, no one will see you."

The Princess eyed the older boy skeptically. "Promise me you won't follow me and peek."

Andrey Dalt chortled. "I've no wish to vomit out four legs of chicken right about now."

_And three more glasses of wine than me. Probably can't stand now, either._

It was a good spot, quiet, with no one but birds and one butterfly to spy upon her. Finding a suitable spot in between two small trees, she was about to undo the laces of her trousers when she felt something hard and metallic press up against her back.

"It's a spear, girl," a deep but feminine voice sang softly from the shadows. "Don't try it, or you'll die, and Obara's robes won't even be sullied by your blood."

"Lady Ellaria," Arya said, recognizing the heavily accented voice of the Sand Snakes' matriarch. "Your Prince change his mind about keeping me around?"

"_My_ Prince," Ellaria scoffed, and as she approached her from underneath the shadows, Arya could see the contempt lighting her eyes under the full moon. "No lady, just Ellaria is fine."

She'd been the lover of Doran's brother, Tyrion had told her, who'd died by swords raised under the Stark flag during the last rebellion. "What do you want with me?"

Rather than answer, the woman reached forward, fingers slipping into her belt and stealing her Needle from her. Instinctively Arya shifted her shoulders to keep the woman's prying hands away from her most treasured object, but a painful jab reminded her of the lethal weapon pinned against her back.

"Behave girl. Next time, I _will_ draw blood," the voice behind her threatened.

"You're pretty good with this, aren't you, Princess?"

Her first thought was to threaten to kill the woman, but Arya bit her tongue.

"Your skills have not been unnoticed," the Dornishwoman continued. "I wonder if Nymeria can whip this out of your hands. You definitely wouldn't stand a chance against Tyene though, unless you can throw this sword as well as you point it."

With a grin, Ellaria placed her sword back into her hilt, and Arya felt the pressure relent from behind her. She spun and turned, recognizing the oldest of the Sand Snakes, Obara, Ellaria had just called her.

"If you want to get better," the older girl said, wearing the same smirk as her adopted mother, "there's a passage by the statue of Nymeria, a set of old stairs leading down to the beach. The cliffs are tall there, and you can't see it from the castle. It's where we train. And Elia's been itching to have a go at you."

"You want me to train with you?" There was no grin to suppress, because Arya was more confused and suspicious of the offer rather than intrigued. Though she was intrigued.

This time it was Ellaria who spoke, and her words were bitter.

"Oberyn's dead. And for what? For that useless old man to put a crown on his bitch of a daughter's head?"

"Prince Oberyn died fighting the northmen," Arya stated plainly.

"He died because his brother's ambition has always far exceeded his brain," Ellaria's whisper nearly screeched out loud. "Why would anyone believe it, whether Stark or Targaryen, whether Tully or Arryn or Baelish ever care so much about putting a _Martell_ on an Iron Throne, except Doran? He failed," Ellaria continued snarling, "he sacrificed a brother and son for his failure, yet now he decides he wants to reward his failure with a crown upon his own head, while Oberyn's bones lie underneath the dirt."

"You want revenge...for Oberyn? _Against_ Doran?"

"You coming, or should I kill you now?" Apparently Obara Sand had not the patience for Arya to finish sorting through all this sordid business in her mind.

The Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, the current heir, by the laws of Dorne, grinned at her captors. "I don't think you would've asked me, unless you already knew the answer."

* * *

**Rhaegar**

It was near dusk when they saw a lone and distant banner upon the horizon. Northern armor, Rhaegar recognized, underneath the flag of a direwolf, a young boy riding at the head of four knights, presumably bannermen belonging to Benjen Stark.

"My son," he whispered, whilst Ser Lewyn readied his hand on the hilt of his sword, in case the Northmen were planning an ambush. It wasn't likely, even Varys believed that, though Rhaegar did wonder whether it came all too easy, that his son, whom they'd clothed as a wolf for twenty years, would so likely to immediately answer the summons from his father.

But what boy would wish to hide forever, away his true parentage? Even Rhaegar, who knew before most that his father had long passed the thresholds of sanity, had agonized and equivocated when the whispers arose that he should depose his father, whether the words came from men wearing whitecloaks, or a woman wearing red. Perhaps Benjen Stark was just a generous man, letting his ward and nephew go, according to his wishes. That, or maybe the Lord of Winterfell never had a choice, because the game was over, the Targaryen restoration complete, and no lord, however well respected in his lands, had the power to prevent a true prince of the blood from riding forth and claiming his rightful inheritance.

The silhouette riding at the head of small procession seemed to be of medium height, with curly dark hair running towards his shoulders. His eyes reminded him of Lyanna's, as he approached closer to his long lost father, spirited and full of will, his face youthful and bright. The northmen escorts accompanied him no further.

"Your name is Aegon," Rhaegar proclaimed, his voice deep, the same tone he'd used the first day he truly sat upon his rightful throne. "We have many things to discuss, in the days ahead, but first, I thought it right for you to know the name given you, by those who birthed you, who loved you even before you were born."

The boy seemed confused by his words. "It's Trystane, actually."

"Trystane?" The name sounded familiar. "Doran Martell's son?"

He nodded, and it was only now that Rhaegar saw the complexion of his skin, not as dark as Elia's, but much moreso than his own, or Lyanna's.

"My father is a temperamental man..."

"He's a traitor," Rhaegar snapped.

"He may be," the boy replied, his impudent voice not relenting before his King. "But I fought for House Targaryen. My uncle died for House Targaryen, and I've spent the last three years in Winterfell as a hostage because of the last war."

"What do you want?"

To his side, Rhaegar saw Lewyn Martell shifting uneasily atop his horse, upon meeting for the first time the youngest of his grandnephews.

"To serve, Your Grace. I ask for a place in your Kingsguard."

What was this business? A joke? A distraction? Yet he knew it would be unwise to crossly berate, much less deny the boy's wish outright, in front of his father's uncle. And Varys would probably leap upon this opportunity in gaining a new hostage against yet another rebellious kingdom.

"It will be considered. Ser Lewyn will accompany you back to the camp." A pause, a thought, then a concession. "The decision will be his."

The boy's eyes widened, realizing for the first time who his companion actually was, and actually rode eagerly past his king, forgetting the reason they'd all ridden this far north from Sow's Horn in the first place. Certainly not to greet some stupid boy and traitor's son.

"Boy?"

"Your Grace?"

"Where's my son?"

Again, the boy frowned in confusion.

"I thought they would have told you," he said, his mount coming to a stop between that of the King's and his protector's.

"Told me what?"

_Patience. Not in front of Lewyn._

"The day we received the raven from King's Landing...well...Jon left Winterfell that very night..."

"Left for where?"

Could they have missed him? Or had bandits befallen their group, or was it northern trickery after all?

"You really don't know," the boy repeated uneasily, looking nervously at his elder relation. "The Wall, Your Grace. Jon's pledged himself to the Night's Watch."


	20. Interlude: The Red Woman

**Tyrion**

The Half Man woke, and wondered whether his dick had frozen off during the previous night. If he were a man to believe in silly things like omens or premonitions, Tyrion Lannister would have wondered whether his longtime fascination with seeing the Wall, one he could trace back to his childhood, had instead been a warning, from one cryptic set of gods or another, that he should have followed his grandfather's example instead of his father's and stayed in Casterly Rock all his life, drinking and whoring himself to an early grave, whichever dynasty sat on the Iron Throne be damned.

"What are the chances father can get some good wine up here," he asked, trying his best to not spit up the nasty, bitter ale that was his accustomed breakfast since his arrival.

"Who's he supposed to ask," Jaime scoffed. "Benjen Stark? That man doesn't know the different between good wine, decent wine, or horse piss."

"You don't think much of the Lord of Winterfell, do you?"

A shrug from his brother, whom he had missed dearly most of his life, their reunion the only pleasant aspect to his exile.

"He's not the worst." A look upwards, where the steps of the Lord Commander's boots echoed through the wooden planks. "But father would have never allowed his wife and children to be taken captive to the opposite side of the country."

_Except they aren't Benjen Stark's children, are they? Not all of them, anyway._

"No," Tyrion rebutted, "he's only allowed that for his daughter and grandchildren, and for his two remaining sons to keep him company in a frozen wasteland. What a sterling legacy for the once mighty Hand to King Aerys, Second of His Glorious Name, scourge of the Reynes and Tarbecks."

It would seem his words would drive his brother to drink as well, as Jaime stole a sip from his cup, and actually did not wince after swallowing. Tyrion wondered if he'd ever get used to the stench of these rotten ales.

"You thought you could've been the girl's Hand one day, didn't you," his brother asked with half a smirk.

"That would've given father a healthy stroke."

They both laughed, but Jaime's laugh was heavy, and Tyrion had a feeling that their sister's captivity never fell far from his mind.

"She'll be fine," Tyrion said softly, patting his brother's hand with his own. "She's stronger than both of us. To be honest, she'd probably prefer Horn Hill to Winterfell. I remember her complaining about how the cold dried up her skin, last I saw her."

"She took surprisingly well to the North," Jaime said wistfully. "I didn't expect that."

"Having her family close by to her didn't hurt," Tyrion replied, looking carefully for any reaction from Jaime. He saw nothing. "Did father ever visit her?"

Jaime shook his head. "She never came to Castle Black either."

_Of course not. No reason to be excessively suspicious, Cersei knows that._

Picking up his bowl of what his so-called brothers, along with his actual brother, decided would pose for soup, Jaime forced down what remained of his breakfast and rose to leave.

"Another ranging expedition?" His brother nodded. "Think you'll find any snarks or grumpkins this time?"

"A few terrified wildlings if we're lucky," Jaime replied, hands polishing the hilt of his sword, "but anything to keep the men busy...anything but restless, really."

* * *

He recognized the King's son on his way to see his father. Having met the eldest surviving child of Rhaegar Targaryen his last visit to Winterfell, Tyrion wasn't entirely surprised, hearing of his self imposed exile following the actions of his father in King's Landing. Jon Stark was exactly that, a Stark, and two decades in the snow had clearly frozen out whatever dragon left hiding in the man's heart to begin with.

"Jon."

"Tyrion."

"I see you've become acquainted with my father."

Jon paused in the cramped hallway, not sure what to say to the man. Apparently Tywin Lannister still retained his abilities to leave people of all sorts speechless.

"He wants me to learn from your brother, says I may follow in his footsteps as First Ranger one day."

"Hmm," Tyrion said, not exactly caught off guard. "I'd say it's funny to ask a Stark to learn the ways of the north from a Lannister, but then, the two of you have been northmen for about the same amount of years now, haven't you?"

The would be heir to the Seven Kingdoms looked awkwardly around the hallway. "Ser Jaime's skills with a sword are unmatched."

"That it is," Tyrion stammered, the conversation dying in the ice. Jon nodded, and watching him walk away, Tyrion pushed open the door to his father's room without knocking.

"House Lannister of Castle Black," he proclaimed loudly to his father, hunched over his desk reading a book. "The Starks have _Winter is Coming,_ I say our new house words ought be _Winter is Here_, considering how much further north our family is situated from the Starks."

The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch did not deign to turn his head. "Everything still a joke to you, boy?"

"Don't think there's much else to do here. Either joke and keep our wits sharp, or numb our minds through the slaughtering women and children and dressing it as a great cause in shielding the Seven Kingdoms from harm. Is it the latter course you've chosen, dear father?"

"Nothing else we can do, hmmph?" It sounded like a question, but to Tyrion, there was resignation in his voice even as his statement sounded something close to a challenge towards his youngest son.

"Oh, I see you've been doing plenty here," Tyrion chuckled. "First your son, then the actual heir to the Seven Kingdoms as your First Ranger. A Tarly as Steward and understudy to Maester Aemon, another Targaryen, though one you've inherited...a Royce as Master-at-Arms, a Hightower in command of the Shadow Tower...appropriate, a Mallister at Greyguard...I daresay, father, you already have a Small Council prepared whenever you decide to proclaim Rhaegar's son the proper King of the Andals and the First Men. Or is it yourself you seek to crown, this time around?"

"I have use for men of talents," Tywin's back said, his hands flipping a page in the tome.

"Talented men, with more talented names."

"Far more talent than the man who lost Casterly Rock," Tywin said, finally turning to greet his son with his own eyes.

It hurt. Even after all these years, a grown man having served on both a Small Council and a Regency Council, his father's bite still stung.

"I thought you'd rejoice. Your hated imp of a son finally put in his rightful place."

"Your _rightful_ place is Casterly Rock," his father responded, anger brimming in his eyes and voice. "You let your home, _my_ home, be usurped right under your nose..."

"By _your_ brother," Tyrion said, his ire rising, his father never failing in drawing out the most bile from his stomach. "Tell me, father, would you have worried, in my place, about your beloved and _loyal_ Kevan betraying you?"

"I wouldn't have thought it likely," Tywin conceded, "but I would have prepared for it all the same."

_Easy to say this now._

A freezing draft blew in from outside. _Great, I arrive, and just in time for winter._ Just how had his father managed to acclimate himself to this gods forsaken place for over two decades now? But if Tywin Lannister could accomplish such a feat, surely he could bear it.

"Well, I suppose that was the one lesson you failed to teach me. Always distrust everyone, including your own family." He paused, then added with emphasis. "_Especially_ your own family."

Tywin Lannister slammed shut his book and slumped down in his chair.

"You may have not been my favorite son..."

"You're telling me that."

"...but you're still my son. My line. My legacy. Kevan isn't. He insults me, what he did. He never would've dared done so, were I not shut away here."

"Would you put him down," Tyrion asked, eyes carefully studying his father, as he was genuinely interested in his answer, "like you put down the Reynes and Tarbecks?"

_And the Targaryen infants._

There was silence.

"You're contemplating something, aren't you?"

"I've had a long time to think."

Tyrion shuddered, knowing there was little in this world more dangerous that a thoughtful Tywin Lannister with time on his hands to think, confined to the Wall or not.

"Targaryen, Stark..._Lannister_. Practically the entire realm has made enemies out of you now. What are you going to do, melt the Wall and drown all seven kingdoms one by one? Should I have the rangers start digging canals from Riverrun to the Eyrie all the way down to Sunspear?"

"Others take the seven kingdoms," his father muttered in a soft whisper. He looked back up at Tyrion. "What do you think of the man, Benjen Stark?"

"Loyal. Dutiful." It was an interesting question, and Tyrion was sure there was a very specific reason for it. "Surely he has to be those things, to have been married to my sister for so long." He ignored the disapproving glare at the casual insult of his sister. "He's not a happy man, not when I passed through Winterfell this time. He worries...whether for Cersei or...their children, I don't know."

"I think you should find out," Tywin said, his voice commanding again.

"So eager already to get rid of me, father?"

"You're right," his father admitted, one nostril twitching, "we ought time it better."

_He's serious. By the Gods, he's serious._

"Surely you're not thinking of...making a move?"

"Surely you're not thinking of doing nothing," his father scolded, his voice as mean as Tyrion remembered in his worst nightmares, "while they hold and threaten and demean your sister and her children, _my_ grandchildren, the only grandchildren I'll ever have, apparently?"

It was time to leave him be. He started walking away at first, but something unseen tugged at his sleeves.

"Tell me what you need me to do."

The game never ended. Especially not for a son of Tywin Lannister's.

* * *

**Sansa**

The King's supplicants looked more the proper part of pirates than the pathetic old man they'd executed at the Sept, before everything went so awfully awry. The boy, older than Robb though, really, looked as confident as she'd expect a pirate King to appear, though Sansa was growing to understand the difference between confidence and arrogance. The girl seemed to possess more of the former, preening not so much as her younger brother, but there was a hardness in her eyes that suggested that Yara Greyjoy, self-proclaimed Queen of the Iron Islands, did not fear anyone, not her uncle, much less a crippled old man sitting on an Iron Throne.

"King and Queen of the Iron Islands," Sansa mused out loud. They obviously did not allow her to participate in their Small Council meetings, so the Queen took every opportunity she could to attend to court herself, in hopes of maintaining her knowledge of the comings and goings and, as always, the splits and conflicts between the many quarreling noble families of Westeros. "Are you married to each other? You should know that incest is _strictly_ forbidden in the Seven Kingdoms now, even between Kings and Queens, though it took three hundred long years for it to happen."

_Were you there when they killed father and Robb,_ Sansa _wanted_ to ask. _Was it one of you who struck the killing blow?_

"Married," the man called Theon scoffed. "To Yara? No offense sister, but I can surely do better."

"He can't," Yara replied, rolling her eyes.

"Nor can he oust your uncle from Pyke," Sansa chided. "Nor can you. Euron Greyjoy won your so-called Kingsmoot fairly. Why should the Crown support a band of _usurpers_ who would wish to disrupt the will of the people and the tranquil _peace_ of the Iron Islands?"

A careful look of reproach from Rhaegar and his Spider, neither of whom had missed the insult buried not so deeply in her words, and Sansa shrugged, looking innocently at her stomach, from whence Rhaegar's spawn would emerge within four moons. Would he look a Targaryen, Sansa wondered. She hoped not. Jon had taken after his Stark mother, and Sansa did not know whether she could love a child who bore the appearances of her enemy, not to mention the madness of their blood.

"Not fairly," Yara Greyjoy disputed. "He killed the Harlaws, who would have spoken for the claims of Balon's children, then Euron held the Kingsmoot while Theon and I were away, raiding off the coast of Kayce..."

"Raiding? _Reaping_, disrupting the Queen's _law_, I believe, I believe that's the proper way to describe piracy," Sansa replied firmly, figuring this would have occurred before her reign had been usurped with the help of the two pitiful supplicants standing below her. "Unless, Lady Yara, you had permission or, dare I say, even encouragement, from certain Westerosi highborns to raid the Seven Kingdoms, to spread the heresies of your false sea god in a land most faithful and dedicated to the Seven? Not the Queen, I know certain of that, but, perhaps others in this must fair court may have been in contact..."

"The Queen's wisdom is appreciated," Varys interrupted with a nervous chuckle. "Her Grace is correct, the Throne of the Iron Islands belongs rightfully to Euron Greyjoy, by the laws of your own people."

Rather than pay any heed towards the Ironborn, Rhaegar just stared sullenly at his Queen for her impudence.

_I will defy you. I will always defy you. And you can't stop me, you need me, to bear your dragonspawn, to hold this realm together._

"He's a madman, Your Grace," Yara continued pleading. "Believe you me, the shores of Westeros, your people will suffer and there will be no lasting peace, not with Euron Greyjoy leading the Ironborn!"

"Then the King will crush the enemies of his people," Rhaegar spoke sternly, his deep voice echoing throughout the throne room, and Sansa could not help but wonder whether his ire was felt more towards the pirates, or his disobedient and flippant wife.

"You will," Theon asked rather casually. "You'll lead your armies yourself, Your Grace?"

Somehow the obtuse man did not even realize his own insult, or perhaps he thought it diplomatic. His sister knew immediately, and cast her brother a mix of annoyance and anger, but the damage was done.

"Ser Lewyn," Rhaegar ordered impatiently, "please have the City Guard escort the Lord and Lady Greyjoy back to the harbor."

The King's pet Martell did as he was told, while his grand nephew cast her an amused grin, which Sansa pretended to ignore.

"Who's next," Rhaegar asked impatiently.

"A lady from Volantis," Kevan Lannister announced, attending to the court this day in the place of the King's Hand. "Kinvara, was the only name she gave, though she claims to be a High Priestess..."

Both the Queen and King looked up eagerly towards the entrance of the throne room at the news, though for entirely different reasons. A small but assuredly looking woman approached the Iron Throne, casting barely any notice towards the austere furnishings surrounding her, her eyes burning solely in the direction of the broken man sitting upon the Iron Throne. Through the many dresses she'd sewn, Sansa had never seen a vivider red than the lace of the robes which clung very tightly against the woman's body, and the corner of her eyes flew to the High Sparrow standing next to Kevan Lannister, satisfyingly noting the disapproval in his demeanor.

"Rhaegar of the House Targaryen," the priestess said in a deep voice, after the most cursory of a knee bending.

"Kinvara," Rhaegar recognized by name. "It has been a long time."

"Yet mere seconds in the eyes of the Lord." Again, an unhappy twitch of the eye from the High Sparrow.

This was going even better than Sansa could have ever hoped. The Red Keep was her home, she knew her way around the halls and solars, and Sers Balon and Trystane were too happy to take her where she wanted to go, and keep her secrets afterwards. All she'd needed were a few minutes sitting behind Rhaegar's desk, writing and sending a scroll to Volantis with her husband's seal upon the parchment. She could not have expected the respondent to have been a woman familiar to Rhaegar, perhaps even the priestess he'd supposedly met in his distant past, the same one who'd driven him towards lust and war.

The woman's intense eyes burned upon her too, and Sansa found herself too entranced to notice Rhaegar's gaze of...eager anticipation, was it, in the direction of his wife.

"Lord Kevan," the King said, his voice softer than Sansa had ever heard. "You may dismiss the court. There are things the Lady and I must discuss in private."

She noted the confusion and...yes, it was disapproval, in the Lannister usurper's face as he obeyed the King's orders. Oddly enough, Sansa saw Varys observing at the red priestess with the same muted hostility as the High Sparrow.

"My Queen," Rhaegar said to her rather tenderly, "you must accompany us. Listen to the Lady Kinvara's words, and you will finally understand your role, _our_ role together, in the great war to come."

This invitation came at a cost. Rhaegar did not trust her, she'd seen well enough to that, for good or for ill, and Sansa had expected him to dismiss her as he'd dismissed everyone else, and it would be far better if she were not seen partaking in the same appearances of heresies she'd plotted for her enemies.

"Of course, my King." The Queen rose, a burden as always these days, and as she watched Ser Lewyn helping the king down the steps and into his chair, Sansa called out to the High Sparrow. "Your Grace," Sansa said politely, "a Priestess of a strange religion seeks the audience of the Most Faithful Crown. We know little of her practices, or her ways, though it is good, because the Light of the Seven ought be the only words from the Gods which meet our eyes and greet our ears. Would it be appropriate, my King, for us to meet this most kind priestess without our conduit to the Gods accompanying us, so that he may advise us of the wills of the Seven whilst we speak to those who would deny them?"

There was indecision in the King's eyes, the first she'd seen of it, _and a hidden rage beneath it,_ Sansa thought. Then Rhaegar was all calm and control again, he turned to the High Sparrow, but not before shooting her yet another bitter look of resentment.

"Please, my good man, I bid you join us."

They walked in silence to a small solar nearby. The Priestess walked strangely at the head of their procession, as if she knew already where she was to go, and the King's eyes never left his priestess along the way. They settled in the room, and the red woman allowed her king to speak first.

"I met the Lady Kinvara many years ago," Rhaegar finally began, ensconced behind his desk. "I was riding to Harrenhal, to Lord Whent's tourney, when the Lady found me in camp one night. She knew...of things she ought not know. Of myself. Of my family, my father, my wife...children."

"Witchery, Your Grace," the High Sparrow scolded.

_"You do not interrupt your King!"_

His voice had been so harsh, and his harshness so sudden, that it stunned even the High Sparrow into silence. All calmness and dignity again, the King resumed his story.

"The Lady Kinvara told me of the great war to come, of the great enemy, who lie beyond the Wall."

_The Others,_ Sansa wondered. _Our valiant King is scared of some ancient children's tale?_

"...she spoke of Azor Ahai, the Prince Who Was Promised, and how his return was imminent. She spoke of the purity of fire, of the return of the dragons, born of fire, and of how the Dragon must have three heads, as it was for my ancestor Aegon and his two sisters...of how their conquering was but a foreshadowing, an omen, an arrow shot by the Gods, to point the way forward."

He stopped. They all stood quietly, all hesitating in their muted reactions, before Sansa broke out first in laughter.

"_You_ believe you're this great prince?" She looked at Ser Lewyn, standing dutifully behind his King. "He believes he's a figure of prophecy? Has he always been as mad as his father, Ser Lewyn? Was it this dedication to his false Gods and their prophecies the reason he kidnapped and raped my Aunt Lyanna and nearly destroyed this entire country with his war?"

The King did not scold her as he scolded his High Sparrow, but Sansa saw in this moment the fiery rage in the eyes of her husband, and she shivered, wondering if her insults had gone a step too far, wondering whether her grandfather and uncle Brandon had not seen the same madness in Aerys before they'd burned.

Then it was gone again, and when Rhaegar spoke, it was as His Grace, the Most Faithful and dignified King. "Not me, clearly. But the blood of the dragon, yes, the direct line of the Conqueror...and soon. Perhaps it's good my son stands at the Wall today, it's the will of the Gods, that he prepares us for what's to come." He turned to the Red Priestess, who'd done nothing but observe them all, lacking any trace of emotion. "Tell them, my Lady Kinvara, of the true enemy, the great threat. Show them what you helped me see that night, in the flames."

"My King," Kinvara replied with a smile. "There is no enemy. The enemy sleeps. The enemy may never be."

"What?" Leaning forward, he slapped the surface of his desk with both hands, his knuckles straining against his skin. "What...what are you saying? Did you...were you _lying_ to me, all those years ago? What riddles do you speak of, woman..."

"You were supposed to die," the woman interrupted without a second thought, the King strangely obedient when she spoke. Letting her words marinate, the priestess continued. "Only death pays for life. The blood of the dragon would have bathed the waters holy, reawakening the dragons, reawakening the spirits of the old, calling forth the Prince into our world. But the dragon lives, the enemy sleeps, and the war will be forgotten. For how long, I cannot say, but none of us, not even myself, will live to see it, or the Prince's return."

"I..." The King's hands, his jaw, his entire frame of body seemed to shake unsteadily. "It can't be."

"It is," the red woman said coldly. "Do you contest the will of the Lord, my King, for you are but a suckling babe to Him."

"I...do you know what I've done? Do you know everything I've done for you, for your great war..."

The red priestess looked to the King with the amusement of a cat towards her prey entrapped. "I just told you the enemy sleeps, Your Grace. Why does my King not rejoice, all his seven kingdoms, all his false prophets ought rejoice at such wonderful tidings."

When no one spoke, the priestess leaned down onto the desk, until her eyes were level with the King's.

"But the King does not rejoice, because he is cursed. Yes...how can a man condemned to die by the Lord of Light, who yet lives, not be accursed? His presence, his wrongness, in this world as much a blight as the enemy himself. He defies R'hilor, by drawing breath, so all who stand within sight of his breath are cursed also." Her small and curvy frame rose from the desk, and the witch looked first towards Ser Lewyn. "The Prince lives because of you. So you are also accursed, so you will suffer, as you have suffered already."

Then, her strange eyes stared into Sansa, and for a moment she saw flames where her irises should have been, and inside the flames she saw...a castle? Waves, crashing against rocks. A sword, flying into the ocean, as if it had its own will, as if it were an arrow shot by an unseen hand. A flock of crows, growing and multiplying against a blue sky, until their cover made it night. Then the sky cleared to reveal a full moon over what she recognized as Blackwater Bay, and closer to her, as if she were standing _there,_ and not _here_, stood a balcony, and two glasses of wine half poured set upon its railing.

The witch's words broke her reverie.

"So you are accursed too, because you carry the seed of the man who cursed you. So you will suffer too, as you have suffered already."

"You," Rhaegar began, his chest heaving angrily underneath his vest. "How...how _dare_ you? You will die, witch, I will order it, I will have Ser Lewyn take your head before the sun sets tonight!"

But the red priestess did not seem scared in the least by the King's threats. "Then I beg of you, give release to the words, it will be a relief, to no longer have to carry this great burden of mine." The King shrank from her, as if it was the priestess, and not he, who held the power of life and death. "You speak of the night," Kinvara continued boldly, "so I will tell you of it. The Long Night will not come, because the accursed Prince lives. But the dragons burn once more. You _will_ see morning, Rhaegar, of House Targaryen...but it will be the death of you."

"Out with you! Out! Out! Out! Out! Out! OUT! OUT!"

Finally, the Lord Commander, who seemed himself in a trance, same as Sansa during this most unpredictable audience, stirred himself back into obedience, grabbing roughly the arms of the priestess. Turning towards the rear of the room, Sansa saw that only the High Sparrow remained unmoved by the witch's pronouncements.

"I did warn you, Your Grace," he said, echoes of gloating in his raspy voice, "towards allowing such vile heresies to..."

"Your sins are grave, young man."

The High Sparrow looked bemusedly at the priestess. He chuckled. "_Young_, I am not. And yes, I have sinned, a lifetime ago. But I did penance for my sins, I confessed before the Gods..."

"You sin still," the priestess interrupted. "You will sin until your dying day. I will see you again, on your dying day. Then, you may atone, for _one_ life, weighed down by sin."

* * *

Trystane frowned while she told recounted him the strange tale.

"You say she cursed you all?"

"That's what you got from it," Sansa asked, smiling, leaning her head back to feel his breath upon the brow of her upper lip. Running one arm around the back of his neck, she traced the tip of one finger gently across his eyebrows, as elegant as any woman's. "Not Rhaegar's lunacy, not his tales of White Walkers and grumpkins and snarks, but...the Red Woman's curses?"

Yet, her words did not sit comfortably upon her mind either. She ought to be thrilled, absolutely delighted, at Rhaegar's comeuppance, at his embarrassment of having been spit upon and rejected by his prize witch, though his shame had been witnessed by only a very select few. And the Queen had gotten more than what she'd wished for from the witch's arrival...a public audience in the Throne Room, Rhaegar acknowledging his familiarity with a High Priestess of R'hilor before all the lords and ladies of his court, then a secret meeting between the King, the Priestess, and the humblest new High Septon. Yet, something seemed wrong, and Sansa could not but blame it upon what remained of her childishness, that she should worry about the curses of a woman who spoke the same riddles as the Mad King probably did before he'd ordered his entire court burnt for his own amusement.

_Yet what I saw in her eyes...the flames. I felt those flames. And everything else..._

"I was cursed once," Trystane replied, his own eyes distant. "It was during the war."

"When you fought my uncle's bannermen?"

"Before," he replied with a whisper. "We defeated a Mallister scouting party. Connington had the young knight executed, when he refused to surrender."

"Jaquil Mallister." She'd remembered reading the lists of names, of young lords and knights who'd died for her. Whose deaths had been in vain, for a lost cause, though not entirely lost yet.

A nervous twitch of his mouth. Sansa knew that had he been present before the red witch, if he could ask of her his greatest wish, it would be that he'd never once raised his sword against his Queen, his love. "Before he died...I remember, I remember his eyes. They...they looked not like the eyes of a young man, but...an old knight...a madman, even, perhaps. He cursed us all, right there on the spot, I remember how the birds sang, while he spoke. Then, we met Lord Stark in battle, and we lost. Many were slaughtered. My uncle..."

Knowing how much his uncle Oberyn had meant to him, knowing also that he'd been reluctant to make war against her, Sansa squeezed his hand. Then she awkwardly turned her body, so that her chest faced his, and though her stomach lay wedged between them, she ran one hand in between his arm and around his back, and buried her head into his thinly clothed chest. Yet, even as she comforted him, she could not dispel her own ill thoughts.

"Connington lives. Rather well, I think. So it would appear that wasn't much of a curse at all."

"And I live." She felt upon her forehead a soft kiss. "And I get to protect the woman I love. I get to repent, to make up for the war I made against her. And I go to sleep, knowing that I have in my heart the love of a Queen, the Queen whom I'd dreamed of every night since she made time to speak to a poor hostage in Winterfell."

Snuggling her face as deeply as she could into his warm body and softly heaving chest, Sansa gave thanks to the only unexpected blessing which had arisen from the disaster that was her reign. "Hmmm. Had I known you'd been so besotted with me so many years ago, I would have broken my betrothal to Viserys, then sent Lancel Lannister to the Wall. You'd make a far better King Consort than any of them."

"King?" Trystane laughed, a magical, musical sound. "Prince is more than good enough."

"Really?" Sansa frowned, her eyebrows tickling against her lover's skin. "_Everyone_ wants to be king, seems to be the only lesson I've learned in this rotten business."

"I was a born a Prince," he said contemplatively, his head nestled comfortably above hers. "It's what I know. It's all I need, so long as I have you."

"It would seem," Sansa said, though more to herself, "that you're the first good choice I've had for a man in my life." A sword swallower, a fool, and an idiot, before she'd found her truest prince.

"A dangerous one."

"I know." Their moments together were few and precious. Only Ser Balon knew, and he covered for them, so they could only spend time together while he stood guard outside her door. Sansa knew what all men wanted, including Trystane. She remembered how frightened he'd been, their first night together, fearing that he might hurt the child in her stomach on that first wonderful night, when she'd finally learned of the true pleasures a woman and a man could enjoy together. She wanted it too, but not this day. Her body hurt, her head ached, but of course Trystane had understood, content to only rub her neck and back while she tried forgetting the disturbing encounter in the King's solar. He was so patient, and she did not deserve him.

Especially considering how she risked _both_ their lives even when they lay chastely together, as they did now.

"Have you decided yet, what you're going to do to all your traitors."

"Hmm," Sansa pretended to consider. "I'd have the Lannisters hung, to start with. You can take Mace Tyrell's head, then we can both watch Tarly and the High Sparrow be stoned in the streets..."

She chanted this like a song, the same way she sang whilst she picked the flowers in her gardens, when she'd been a child.

"And the dragons?" Trystane knew better than to mention Rhaegar's name out loud to her.

The words of the Red Woman resurfaced in the Queen's head.

_"But the dragons burn once more."_ Surely the priestess hadn't been speaking of the Littlefinger.

"Wouldn't it be funny, if they burned?"

* * *

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**Notes & Responses:** As to why Edmure had to marry a Frey even though he didn't need the crossing? It was noted several times in prior chapters that he was struggling to rally together enough men to come to the relief of KL, due to the disapproval in the more Andal and Seven worshiping houses of first Sansa's "unfaithfulness", and then disgust at the destruction of the Sept, so he needed the men whom the Freys commanded. _And oh, in fact, wasn't that the very reason Edmure had to marry Roslin in canon? Not for the crossing, but for the Frey banners to help Robb take Casterly Rock._

A note here that I will no longer waste my time posting responses here to certain reviewers/reviews who think themselves much smarter than they are, yet are obviously lacking in reading comprehension, logical sense, and/or knowledge of the source material.


	21. The Queen's Puzzle

**Daenerys: Year 302**

The only daughter of Aerys II Targaryen and the only sister of Rhaegar I Targaryen had always known that she would be sold into marriage one day. Or given, that was a more proper term, a prettier one, unless the speaker were the giftee, of course. Nor did Daenerys ever believe that she was any more special than all the other Targaryen princesses who had come before her, except she'd known a life outside of the Red Keep and the royal court. But if anything, she thought of her mother Rhaella, a Queen, but only made so after she had been forcibly married to her brother Aerys. Could she have ever suffered the same, having to take Viserys's hand in marriage, and carry his children and suffer his...inconstancies, for the rest of her life?

So there was at least one blessing she could give thanks to, that Lancel Lannister, spineless little twit as he was, was not prone to Viserys's habits of occasional, or not occasional, bursts of tantrums, nor did she ever see him acting outright cruelly to those he did not deem unworthy of his stature and undeserving of his respect. Still, the new Lady of Casterly Rock had always assumed that Rhaegar, when he did choose whom she was to marry, would go out of his way in finding a better man than most for his beloved sister, whom he'd raised as his own daughter. Daenerys would have preferred instead a man like Dickon Tarly, for one, having met him during her half fortnight of marriage and court in King's Landing, quickly understanding that the heir to Horn Hill was one of the few prospects Rhaegar would have considered for her, based on his political situation. Perhaps her brother thought she valued the title, her position and castle, more than the man himself. If so, how little did Rhaegar truly know her, or was it that _he_ coveted Casterly Rock more than Horn Hill, thinking little of the kind of man she would want to marry?

Or how much had she changed, her brief foray into freedom and escape from her family legacy seeming so far in the distance already? She missed Daario, though he had been wearing upon her patience on the day she received the raven informing her of Rhaegar's restoration, and could not help but force back a chuckle picturing in her mind the sellsword's reaction upon meeting her new husband.

"Lord Gawen is here."

"To discuss the marriage of his daughter Jeyne," Daenerys asked the girl, a Lefford. She had handmaidens now. It was similar to the palaces of Essos, where Rhaegar had tried bestowing her the same experiences as she would enjoy as a Princess of the blood in Westeros, except the women who served her on behalf of the princes and magisters were slaves, whether they were openly acknowledged as such, in Volantis or Lys, or not, hidden away by couther titles in Pentos.

"If my lady does not feel well, I will tell Lord Lancel that he can attend to it on his own."

Daenerys shrugged off the suggestion. "I will attend," she said, forcing herself to rise from her chaise, waddling uncomfortably from her chambers into the Great Hall, the Lefford girl watching over her charge carefully with every step she took. After a great pause, it would seem that the Targaryen line would continue, though the lady Margaery still remained without child. But Rhaegar had his son now too, a raven had informed her several fortnights before, and the realm had their new heir in the infant Baelor Targaryen despite her older nephew's attempts to distance himself from the dragon.

Daenerys wondered once her child came whether to give it a Valyrian name, or one that would be more common to the Westerlands. Lancel would be biddable, as always, perhaps that was his best trait, for herself at least, and Daenerys's future lay not in King's Landing and the Iron Throne, much less the Summer Isles or the walls of Qarth, which she hadn't yet seen and may never yet see...but in Casterly Rock, and the lands of her husband. As such, naming Lancel's heir something disagreeable like Tytos or Gerion would certainly make her life in this dreary castle more agreeable for the next fifty years, give or take.

"The claimant is Lord Gawen Westerling," Lady Genna Lannister announced, once Daenerys arrived and took her seat beside her husband. Lancel's aunt had been pleasant to her, attending to her nephew's court and paying all the right compliments to Daenerys and her condition, but she knew that Genna's true intentions in travelling the short distance from Lannisport were to protect Lancel's fragile position as acting Lord Paramount, and from his wife who was the King's sister, if need be.

"My lord," the older lord said, bowing to Lancel, "Princess. My beloved daughter Jeyne, the jewel of my wife's eye, was betrothed three years ago to Ser Hal Banefort, and married her husband lawfully, before the Septon and the Gods, ten and seven moons prior..."

And while Gawen Westerling loved his wife, or claimed to at least, it appeared that her fellow highborns of the Westerlands did not, for the Lady Sybell Spicer was descended from merchants, men whose trade was looked down upon in Westeros where they were revered and elevated into princehood in Essos. Which meant that all of House Westerling's brood now descended from merchants as well, which meant Jeyne Westerling, a very pretty and pleasant girl, they told her, would now be considered a bad match for marriage despite her loveliness in form and temperament, despite her family's wealth and formerly good name.

Ser Hal had been the third son of Quenten Banefort when the betrothal had originally been agreed to. Then his eldest son Rynold died trying to subdue an Ironborn raid, but that still left Lord Percy, a second son, who'd been sailing south to the Arbor in order to court a Redwyne daughter when his ship sank in a particularly harsh storm three moons before. All of this left Hal Banefort as heir to his house, already married to supposedly lowborn blood, and threatening to pass the Westerling curse down to all the heirs of House Banefort for all years to come.

"...and they love each other," Gawen continued, "they truly do, tis a rare thing, to be honest, in marriages, yet Lord Quenten contests that the marriage was not lawful."

"Who was the Septon who presided over the wedding," asked one of the Sparrows, their presence affixed to the Great Hall of Casterly Rock and other castles great and minor, Daenerys figured, thanks to the endeavors of her brother.

"Septon Willis," the old, bearded lord replied, "late of Lannisport."

"He supported Polis for High Septon," the Sparrow interrupted rudely, "a known whoremonger, and the patron to the unlawful reign of Sansa Stark. His judgment cannot be considered sanctified in the eyes of the Gods, and therefore the marriage is invalid."

"But...milord," Gawen pleaded, ignoring the Sparrow and turning instead to Lancel, "such a pronouncement may disqualify more than half the marriages in the Seven Kingdoms..."

"So be it," the Sparrow pronounced coldly, "justice delayed is itself a crime before the Gods."

He was a thin and willowy man, whom they told her had been but a baker himself in Lannisport before his conversion, and a patron to the city's brothels at that, who now stood casting judgment upon a girl whose only crime was to possess merchant's blood several generations removed. Some Sparrows she figured to be truly devoted, an unfortunate condition, but at least sincere. Others might claim yet not be free from human desires. Daenerys could not tell which befell this Sparrow who presumed to speak for the heir to Casterly Rock, but she could guess, considering the fact that Quenten Banefort had not bothered to attend this decision which would so greatly impact his family, and wonder whether the arrangement had been arranged with the Sparrows long beforehand.

"But my daughter is with child..."

"Then the child will be a bastard," Lancel replied sternly, though Daenerys knew he was merely a boy pretending to be stern.

"My dear husband, surely you must consider..."

Even the Lady Genna seemed aghast at the decision. "My Lord, must we subject the marriages of so many of your vassal lords and ladies to such judgments..."

Her dear husband did not bother to look at Daenerys, soon to be the mother to his child, when he spoke. "I myself have sinned, and sinned gravely. I have confessed, repented, found forgiveness in the mercy of the Mother."

"Then the Mother may forgive others," Daenerys said gently. Lancel had been besotted by his new wife not so long ago, and definitely on their wedding night. But this day only confirmed to Daenerys that he had been actively shunning his wife ever since she'd told Lancel that she was carrying his child. It would seem that the Sparrows had replaced her as Lancel's object of affection in the meantime, though it surprised Daenerys the suddenness and intensity of his newfound devotion to the order.

Or perhaps it was the mention of Queen Sansa that agitated the man to such stubbornness. Lancel refused to ever speak of her, or their illicit affair, which seemed quite innocent in the end, according to what Lady Genna told her, though the older woman may very well be biased in favor of her nephew.

"The Mother's mercy is not for me to decide, or proclaim," Lancel interrupted her, and Daenerys exchanged a wary look across the table towards Genna, and received a...sympathetic one, perhaps, in return. "The Gods speak for themselves, through the voices of their Sparrows."

_Gods, Rhaegar gave me the worst of husbands. I thought I'd married a fool, when in fact he's a fool and a fanatic._

Watching the downtrodden man depart the Great Hall, Daenerys rubbed her stomach, and prayed for a son. Perhaps her voice would not be heard in Casterly Rock for some time to come. Perhaps she was doomed to witness such injustices every day, fighting a losing war against her husband and his newfound favor towards the Sparrows. But war was a drawn out thing, wasn't it? Rhaegar had taught her that, fighting his for twenty long years before surprisingly emerging victorious in the end. And so would she, for the future of her child, her new lands. For _her_ life, and no one else's.

* * *

**Sansa**

The Queen strained to reach one delicate finger forward, picking up a black piece resembling a dragon, and knocked away triumphantly an elephant sitting on Jeyne Poole's side of the cyvasse board.

"Does this mean I win," Sansa asked with a smirk.

"Hells if I know," her oldest and most faithful friend replied with a shrug, picking up a trebuchet and setting it in an open spot next to Sansa's king piece. "It's your board, that prince from Essos gave it to you as a wedding gift."

"Right, don't remind me." Taking another piece with her left hand, this one looked like horse with a knight sitting atop it, Sansa handed it to the child cradled above her right arm. Baelor grabbed unknowingly at the cyvasse piece, holding it in his hands for a second or two before dropping it onto the ground with a thud. "I wish Lord Tyrion were here. He could probably teach us how to play this thing.

"A lot of things would be easier if they didn't send Lord Tyrion to the Wall," Jeyne muttered, picking up the horse and setting it on a random spot on the board, different from where it lay before. "I don't have to act as my Queen's secret Hand, for one."

"I thought I was Her Grace's Hand," a voice called genially from beside the entrance to the Godswood garden, and Sansa turned her neck to smile at Trystane. Though his back was turned to her, she could hear the smirk embedded in his fine voice.

"I'll give it to whichever one of you kills the most of my enemies," the Queen replied, not entirely unseriously, taking a spearman and knocking down Jeyne's king piece. The game was useless, her so called victory meaningless, but it was a good excuse for privacy, and a better pretense towards protecting the perceived innocence of their privacy. So was nursing her firstborn child, and as Sansa's eyes glazed over Baelor's silver hair, she gave thanks that his purple eyes remained closed for the moment. That it bade the men of the court to leave her alone, she thought most uncharitably, was the only use she had for her first child.

_I hate him. I shouldn't, but I can't help it. I should love him. But he bears the blood of the family who slaughtered one half of mine, and keeps the rest hostage._

"I spoke to Lord Monford today," Jeyne volunteered, her dark eyes looking around the garden nervously.

"About his son?"

"I did ask," Jeyne replied. "I told him I'd heard whispers, that there was talk about betrothing Lord Monterys to Lady Shireen. I told him I believed it to be a good match."

Shireen was supposed to be betrothed to Bran. The agreement would be in place now, if it weren't for Rhaegar. But Bran may never be allowed a wife, Sansa worried, and neither would Rickon, not until she'd overthrown Rhaegar and all his supporters.

Then she'd marry Trystane, and he'd father more children with his Queen, the heirs to House Stark and all seven kingdoms. Yet what of her very Valyrian firstborn son, even were she to change his name to Stark? Would she send Baelor to the Wall, far before the boy would reach his maturity, to join his cousin Jon? Would that be so he did not threaten an inheritance Sansa never meant to give him, or because she would not be able to stand the sight of Rhaegar's youngest son?

"There's no weaknesses to him, is there?" Sansa sighed. "That's the problem."

Of all of Rhaegar's Small Council, Monford Velaryon, Tyrion's replacement as Master of Law, appeared to them the only possible candidate for the moment. Surely the men who'd accompanied their prince for twenty years in exile, Lewyn, the Lord Commander, the Spider, Master of Whispers, and Connington, Rhaegar's Master of War, could never be induced to abandon the man now that they'd won him an Iron Throne. Neither would Tarly or Kevan Lannister, one more repeat of treason being more than enough to seal their reputations throughout all Seven Kingdoms, if not their fate...hopefully under Trystane's sword, if Sansa had anything to say about it. As for Mace Tyrell, from what she'd heard, the Lord of Highgarden hadn't been the most zealous of all her traitors, and she would like to give the man the benefit of the doubt, if only for the sake of her affections for both his children.

_"The realm hasn't seen a proper Grand Tourney in six and ten years,"_ she'd mentioned very casually to him, when Mace Tyrell had visited her chambers several moons before to give his blessings to the Queen and her newborn prince. _"It's a shame, I was far too young to remember that grand scene at Riverrun, when all the realm came and partook in the good tidings of the castle of my grandfather."_

The Reach was the key, they'd decided, a small rebellion consisting now of only three youths, none older than seven and ten. Their greatest enemies lay in the south, yet in the manors of the archtraitor Tarly also sat her aunt and cousins, the key to unlocking the tens of thousands of northmen who would come to her aid the moment they were freed, along with Bran and Rickon. One glorious army marching could rally her uncle Edmure's men, perhaps even the Knights of the Vale, especially if she could weaken Rhaegar's position from inside the Keep. This gave her four kingdoms, assuming Renly Baratheon's word was true, to counter the Crownlands, the Reach, the Westerlands, and possibly the Iron Islands, if Rhaegar somehow come to yet another deal with the wicked Greyjoy kings.

Out of all these enemies, the Reach was the most powerful...but just how solidly did they stand behind the Tyrells and Tarly's? Sansa intended to find out at Mace Tyrell's tourney. With any luck, she could speak discretely to Renly and uncle Edmure, gauge just how firm their positions lay in their respective kingdoms.

And there was the convenient fact that Highgarden wasn't all that far from Dorne either. Sansa had never met Doran Martell, the man who held her sister, the man who'd betrayed her father...yet also the father of the man she loved today. How much of a difference could that make? For now, Trystane did not know himself, having not set foot in his native land for more than five years, since before the last war.

Trystane's arrival in the capital had been a mildly comforting thought at first, little more. She'd asked him about Winterfell, about her family, and delighted in listening to his stories of sweet Myrcella and Tommen, of trying to tame her youngest yet wildest cousin Rykka.

_"Jon should be here, not me," Trystane confided to her, one of the first nights he'd been assigned to guard her chambers. "I know you would wish he were here to protect you..."_

_"It's for the best," Sansa admitted sadly, knowing in her heart, for some unknown reason, that she could trust this young man, possibly because she had so few whom she could confide in these days. "Rhaegar would seek to use him, to corrupt him, until he's no longer a northerner...no longer a Stark."_

_"That night," Trystane recalled solemnly, "we'd received the raven from King's Landing. Jon had raged. 'Send me,' he screamed to Lord Benjen. 'The North will fight for Lady Cersei and her children. The North will fight for their Queen. Declare me an outlaw...' Jon thought he could gather enough men anyway, then march south, but Lord Benjen talked him down, told him it would never work, that he'd be falling right into Rhaegar's trap."_

_"I trust Jon," Sansa said, thinking that perhaps she could trust too a man who'd so befriended her oldest cousin. "He would have fought an impossible war though."_

_Her uncle was right. Where could Jon have marched? Against King's Landing, and take a city that's never been taken by siege, where her outlaw cousin would be outnumbered against the armies of three kingdoms? And that was only half the travel through hostile lands compared to a march against Horn Hill. He could sail there, Sansa supposed, had her uncle the ships, and supposing then that Jon could sneak under the noses of the Lannister fleets, the Greyjoy fleets, and the Redwyne fleets, one after another...an even unlikelier prospect._

_No, she had to accept that overthrowing Rhaegar, freeing herself, if not just her family, was a risky and unlikely thing that would take years, if ever. _

_It hurt, knowing that the best thing for Jon's soul, if not his place in the realm, was to condemn himself to a lifetime of exile. He deserved better. Every single Stark who'd suffered because of Rhaegar and Littlefinger and Varys deserved better. Perhaps she could absolve him of his vows, if she could overthrow her husband. _

_It was in that bleak moment that Sansa realized that she felt better about her chances with Trystane by her side. Not because of who his father was, but because of the way he looked at her, when they were alone, away from prying eyes. Because the North had left its mark on Trystane, more than Sansa or her siblings even. Because the North was her home, her true people, a culture and way of life she'd forgotten, to her detriment and regret, but whose imprint was still fresh upon Trystane._

"I...," Jeyne's voice interrupted shakily. "Lord Monford's wife has returned to Driftmark. She is sickly, they say. I...I think, the way Lord Monford looks at me, I think I can..."

"No," Sansa's voice commanded, remembering how it felt like to be a Queen, though she'd never reigned truly. "I won't have you selling yourself on my behalf, Jeyne."

There were some lines she would never allow herself to cross, but Jeyne did not agree.

"How else can we get rid of him then?"

They'd judged his position the weakest, because though he'd declared for Rhaegar during his first rebellion, Monford Velaryon had not fled into exile after the war. Her Council stripped him of his lordship, but let him keep his castle on the island of Driftmark, leaving him still lord in all but name. It was meant as a conciliatory measure, her unc...Littlefinger had once explained to her, and though Sansa knew now to distrust every word the man had spoken to her during his ill-gotten tenure, it would seem his treachery did not cover as far as Driftmark. House Velaryon remained loyal to House Stark, because they did not _need_ to raise their banners in war again, because House Stark appointed on their own the very same men who would so _lawfully_ hand her rightful crown over to House Targaryen. And so Lord Monford was called to the capital to serve as Master of Law, though possessing little in personal ties binding him to either of the only two families to have ever claimed successfully the Iron Throne.

"Surely he has enemies," Trystane whispered, all while standing guard. "We'll find them, once all the realm gathers at Highgarden."

"I'm not sure," Sansa said thoughtfully. "Driftmark is well accustomed to isolation. And Lord Monford seems too canny to make enemies needlessly."

It seemed all would agree that the Master of Laws was very capable in his position. Sansa knew that she could not wrangle her own men onto Rhaegar's Small Council, not under the Spider's watchful eyes, anyway, which meant the only chance she stood, at least to begin with, was to position dull and incapable men into her husband's inner circle...truly venal ones, were she to be blessed with a rare bout of luck. There was Jonos Bracken, for one, who'd shown up in King's Landing boasting with all but his words how he'd refused to rally for the Tully banners when Edmure called them, believing now that he somehow deserved a place in court for his lack of fealty.

There were other possibilities too. Fossoways, perhaps, their reputations weren't great. Sansa didn't think much of Ralph Buckler either, the Lord of the Bronzegate had been most eager to flatter and kiss the feet of his new king, which meant that he was probably not amongst those Renly spoke of, that she could rely upon in the Stormlands. Littlefinger had taught her well, so it would seem. Such unreliable men planted into the Keep could begin to slowly undermine Rhaegar's reign, just as they'd done so against her, but first they needed to pry away one by one his existing and rather solid Small Council.

Baelor was full, and Sansa handed her son into Jeyne's waiting arms, before pulling her dress back over her chest. Her friend doted on the boy more warmly than Sansa ever did. Jeyne did not know the loathing she couldn't help but feel for her son, because that was one secret she'd been careful to hide from everyone, save Trystane.

"Third drawer," Jeyne whispered despite their privacy, "by your closet."

The Queen nodded in understanding. She took the moon tea for Trystane, but Sansa would drink it for Rhaegar as well. The moment she'd laid her eyes upon Baelor for the first time, gazing into his sick purple eyes, Sansa had sworn she'd never again give birth to one of Rhaegar's dragonspawn, even if it meant sharing her husband's bed again and again until he'd finally given up. Fortunately, Rhaegar had not sought her out on the nights after Baelor's birth. Perhaps he'd taken the Red Priestess's prophecies to heart. Certainly he'd been more sullen since that encounter, rarely leaving his chambers, not even to sit on his Iron Throne, though his advisors seemed to do a frustratingly good job governing Rhaegar's kingdom for him.

_The dragon will have two heads, and never be,_ Sansa thought, allowing her heart its secret gloat.

* * *

"You'll like the gardens, I'm sure. I heard them say Highgarden has the prettiest flowers in Essos or Westeros."

Sansa's heart ached for Bran. Though he hadn't been maturing into the greatest of swordsman, Bran always savored his lessons in the courtyard. Her brother hadn't climbed or crawled about the castle walls since he'd been a child, but Sansa could tell that her eldest surviving brother loved being outside, riding, or running and playing games with the pages and squires in the castle...anything except being cooped in a small room for most of the day.

Behind her, Meryn Trant coughed impatiently. They brought him and Rickon out of the Hand's Tower only once a day now, under Ser Meryn's watchful eyes, before returning her brothers back to their captivity. The Queen had to personally write her requests to Randyll Tarly any time she wished to see her brothers, and oftentimes the man ignored her entirely. Not today, at least, and Sansa was thankful for the opportunity to visit her own blood, before leaving for the tourney.

Taking Bran into her arms, Sansa noted yet again how he stood taller than her. "Maybe I'll make Rickon the Lord of Highgarden, once this is all said and done." She was careful to whisper her words, which Rhaegar and his men would call treason, directly into Bran's ear, though she doubted Ser Meryn was watching them all that carefully anyway. "Or maybe I'll give him Casterly Rock, and you can have both Highgarden and Dragonstone."

"That would be difficult to manage," Bran said. Sansa knew it was not right for her to make such unlikely promises, giving her brothers false hope when any prospects of victory loomed still so far away. But they had far less freedom than she, still a Queen by name, and until her position strengthened, dreams were the only things Sansa I Stark, _always_ the _sole_ and _rightful_ Queen Regnant and occupant of the Iron Throne in her mind, could possibly bestow her brothers.

"If anyone can, it'd be you."

"I wish I can help you more. Grandpapa told me I was supposed to protect you, my sister, my Queen."

"A Queen's duty is to protect her people," Sansa replied, "her family first. I'm the one who failed, Bran. But I'm trying, believe me, I am."

Letting go, she took Rickon into her arms, rubbing her fingers through his thick mane. Though his hair resembled their mother's, Sansa remembered their last visit to Winterfell, where uncle Benjen had remarked that her youngest sibling was the one who reminded him the most of a young Jon, grown into a man who'd just ensured that he'd remain a true northerner until his dying day.

"They say they'll have merchants from Volantis in Highgarden, that they can carve all sorts of trinkets, paint them colors you can't even imagine. I'll bring you something, I promise..."

"Your Grace," Ser Meryn interrupted, "I'm sure the King is expecting your return."

_He's not,_ Sansa replied angrily in her mind, but she'd learned better than to argue with men like Meryn Trant. There was something about this particular man too, she thought, the way he looked at her, whether it was loathing his helmet concealed, or something else, but Sansa knew that left alone in a room with Ser Meryn, she was kept safe by only the threat of the worst violence to be inflicted upon a Kingsguard who'd dare to harm a Queen he was sworn to protect.

Fortunately the Queen found Trystane awaiting her in her chambers, to help her forget her annoyance and uneasily at Ser Meryn, or her sadness towards the brothers she was about to abandon, if only briefly for a few fortnights. Alas, he was standing guard, which meant he could not spend the night in her bed, but she fell into his arms anyway, claiming his soft lips for herself, despite the risk that they could be caught, without Ser Balon keeping watch nearby. Suddenly, she started crying, her chest heaving in wretched sobs over and over again, despite her attempts to regain control over herself, despite the fact that the Queen did not like revealing her deepest vulnerabilities towards anyone, not even Trystane.

"Shhh," Trystane whispered, pulling her carefully into her chambers, looking both ways down the corridors before shutting the door, though not entirely. "I know it seems so difficult now...but I know you'll win. You're the strongest woman I know."

Feeling the grip of his strong arms tighten around her, Sansa wanted to shove Trystane into her bed and take him now, damn Rhaegar, damn his whitecloaks. She needed him, so badly. But the risk was not worth it. Not when it could mean his death, and the collapse of all her plans.

"Then why do I feel so weak," she bemoaned instead, "so useless?"

"Because you're alone. Because _we're_ alone," he corrected, "we're surrounded by enemies."

"This was my home," Sansa said, opening her eyes, looking around at the chambers which had once belonged to her mother. She'd occupied her father's chambers during her brief reign, until Rhaegar stole it from her. "Now I'm a prisoner. So are Bran and Rickon." It was nothing she and Trystane did not already know. And saying the words did not make her feel better. Biting her lips, Sansa absorbed the quiet rhythm of her lover's breaths, one after another underneath his armor, until she felt calm again.

"I need you to be strong for me, Trystane."

"I promise you, my Queen." Because they stood at close to the same height, he had to lift his head to kiss her on her forehead, before letting her go, and resuming his place guarding the entrance to her chambers. "One day at a time, remember? Seven Kingdoms once pledged themselves to you. We'll get them back."

It's what she told herself every night, so that she could fall asleep. But tonight, he would not lie there beside her, to assure her of it.

* * *

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**Author's Notes:** Sorry for the long "delay", though it wasn't really a delay. I'd gotten a few trollish responses in the last few chapters I posted...I say trollish, even though said reviewer posted a rather long response defending himself (though the reviewer couldn't help a few passive aggressive remarks in the post amidst offering his praise...I'd remembered a much more trollish review on my last story posted here, where the reviewer, rather comment anything even about the story itself, ranted more about S8 and the show ending).

It wasn't my intention to stop posting at that point. But I don't post these chapters here to aggravate myself, which was what I as doing, having to defend this story and its choices with every chapter's author's notes. And rather seek out aggravation where I needn't, I procrastinated instead, even while continuing posting in much more productive and enlightened forums such as AO3 and others, until it seemed way too much to catch up here.

Well, I've got some extra spare time during this quarantine/shelter in place etc, so I figured I'll bite the bullet and catch everything up here on FFN. Be aware, there'll be a bevy of chapters coming, long ones, traumatic ones, etc. To those who were enjoying this story, I apologize for the interruption, and I hope you were able to find it nevertheless on AO3. And I will note that going forward, to save myself the time and aggravation, I won't be responding to any reviews I don't feel like responding to.

Most importantly, I hope that everyone stays safe and healthy out there.


	22. Tourney at Highgarden

**Sansa**

The Tyrells had been no strangers at court during her childhood, and Sansa could not recall anymore from whom she'd first heard about the fabulous gardens of their castle. As a child she had begged her father to bring her to Highgarden, but the only ventures afforded her outside of King's Landing had been to the lands of her ancestors, visiting one or another of her uncles at Riverrun or Winterfell. Then father had died, and her first moons as Queen saw her presiding victorious over a great battle. Only afterwards did they decide that it was important for her to learn how to become a Queen Regnant, which meant hours of study with the maesters and only the occasional trip to her Small Council meetings, much less anywhere outside the capital. So by the time Sansa finally arrived to the grandest manor of the Reach, the only castle in all seven kingdoms which could rival the Red Keep, they always told her, she saw only poison in the roses and daisies and tulips, snakes in their undergrowth.

No shortage of words extolling these gardens had failed to reach her ears over the years. When Margaery came and spoke to Robb of their love, she regaled Sansa about the wonders of her gardens. When Loras Tyrell sparred and laughed with Robb and joked with Renly on his visits to the capital, it was regarding the beauty of these flowers and arrangements he spoke of, rather than her eyes, her laugh, her smile, the hair and braiding she'd had poor Jeyne spending hours that morning perfecting. When Mace Tyrell arrived in the city to serve as _her_ Master of Coin, it was of his grand castle he spoke of, rather than the state of her kingdoms, her treasuries, the granaries that was her duty to see full before winter came.

"Your Grace."

"Lord Renly."

Sansa had wondered about her one time Master of Whispers upon arrival. Knowing better than to ask for the man who could be assisting her directly, she inquired instead as to the whereabouts of Loras Tyrell.

_"Oh, out riding with Lord Renly,"_ Mace had replied innocently. So Renly had chosen to attend, unlike her kingly husband, who remained locked in his own chambers in the Keep, as he'd been since the priestess. Neither of her uncles by blood were present either, though Sansa did not begrudge either's absence. Edmure's last foray out of Riverrun had been enough struggle, and he had a new son to care after now. Benjen had to prepare the North for winter, and considering the fact that they would let neither aunt Cersei and her children leave Horn Hill, nor allow for visitors, there was really nothing to lure her uncles in towards attending the tourney of a most unfriendly court.

"I see the Seven Kingdoms have been blessed by an heir, since my last time in King's Landing."

_Curse these gardens,_ Sansa thought, just as she watched whilst Margaery Tyrell approached their way, almost as if she were purposefully intent upon interrupting their conversation, before it could become useful to her.

Renly saw too the approach of his lover's sister, and smiled most graciously at the woman.

"The Stormlands are well," he continued, in a voice low enough to not be heard, but not too low to appear suspicious. "It lives up to its name, of course...lightning darts through the skies quite often. We watched the stars the other night, the Lady Shireen and I, we looked to the Evenstar, and even a falling star across the way."

"Queen Sansa," Margaery exclaimed, as Renly kissed politely the lady's hand before departing without another look at his Queen. "My most sincere congratulations on the birth of a healthy and wonderful son."

"Lady Margaery." Sansa forced a smile, fighting the urge to turn away immediately from this woman whom she had once wished so badly to befriend. Jeyne had been right, after all, Robb's betrothed was not to be trusted. "How fares your marriage with Prince Viserys?"

"Oh it's wonderful," Margaery gushed, "he is a true dragon, just like your son will be one day, I imagine. He takes well to the sun here. While I'm most happy to accompany our father back to King's Landing after the tourney, I do believe that I can talk my beloved into coming south to Highgarden after my father's duties to his king are complete, rather than Dragonstone, oh, what a bleak place that is, I've heard."

_What of the last Prince you claimed to have loved_, Sansa struggled not to scream at the woman. _You deserve Viserys, for leading Robb astray. And your father's duties were to me first, before he betrayed me to grovel at Rhaegar's feet._

"Yes, children are a blessing," she mumbled, wondering just how long she would have to maintain her courtesies. Her own child was being attended to by Jeyne, and Sansa gave thanks for her friend, because she truly did not know how she could function without her.

"I'm afraid I've failed my dear Viserys so far in that regard," Margaery continued absentmindedly, "but I pray to the mother every night..."

It confused Sansa, whether she truly believed in this farce or not.

_Better you remain barren. Else it'll be the blood of your children on my hands when I order them executed, once I take back my throne._

"Queen Sansa, Lady Margaery!"

A third feminine voice interrupted their chatter, and both Sansa and Margaery turned to see their mutual goodsister, whose belly looked ever the rounder upon the Princess's shorter stature. Instantly Margaery reached over to carefully hug the woman, while Sansa just watched the two bitterly from a distance. All the lords were leaving towards the stands, where the jousters were to soon commence the tourney with the first bouts of the festivities. Seeing Trystane standing nearby, ready to guide her to her seat at the center of it all, a makeshift throne for her if only because of Rhaegar's absence, Sansa left the two women and began her walk towards her place. Then, she felt a tug upon her arm, and saw the small and pale hand of Daenerys Targaryen.

"Your Grace. May I borrow you, for just a few moments?"

Trystane shrugged. "Princess Daenerys," Sansa said politely, trying to think as fast as she could any excuse to avoid conversing with anymore of her extended dragonspawn family. "Perhaps later tonight, I'm afraid I'll be late for the tourney."

But Daenerys laughed her off. "You're the Queen, the ranking member of court in the king's absence. They'll wait, as they should, they won't dare start the tourney without you."

It was true. Rhaegar's decision had been a relief, as his absence meant the tantalizing prospect of perhaps even one night alone with Trystane, though they had to be especially careful on this trip, considering her quarters consisted of a tent in an open camp, or chambers inside an enemy's castle, all with the overbearing presence of the Sparrows in every corner. Seeing no way to refuse the woman, Sansa nodded her assent to Trystane, watching out of the corner of her eye her lover following them as Rhaegar's sister led the small procession into a nearby garden, surrounded by high hedges.

One of them had to break the silence, discontent as either woman was to merely wander about, only pretending to admire the flowers and manicured bushes. When it came finally time to relent, it was the dragonness who spoke first.

"I know you have no love for my brother Rhaegar."

_This again._ Sansa turned to rebuff the woman, but Daenerys's attentions had returned to the roses. _The nerve of her._ "Are you here to assure me he's a good man? That he loved my aunt Lyanna, that I should love him as Lyanna loved him?"

"No."

It was a simple statement, yet one that irresistibly beseeched for more from the woman being addressed. It was an art form, her manners of speaking, and Daenerys was quite good at it, Sansa could see. Yet, she resisted. If the Princess wanted to state her meaning, then she would not beg it out of her.

"He's not a bad man," Daenerys gave in again, Sansa grateful for this smallest of victories. "And he's my brother, I love him, I always will. But I can't say that he's a good man anymore. Not with everything he's done."

"To my family," Sansa heard herself saying before she could catch herself. Was this Rhaegar's way of drawing out her treason, with honey from his pretty sister? If so, then she needed to be better guard herself of it.

"To you," Daenerys insisted, her purple eyes looking up at Sansa's in all sincerity. "Whatever the...history between our families, you hadn't been born then. You spared Viserys, when you could've had him killed. Yet my brother tore you down, one piece of your crown after another. You didn't deserve that."

So it was a ruse. Sansa knew she ought refuse the bait, to proclaim her love and loyalty to her king and husband. But her mouth could never allow her to utter such falsities, because what was treason against Rhaegar when it came to treason against her heart, her family? So she remained quiet, and they walked.

"It's funny, isn't it." Daenerys relented once more, speaking when Sansa refused to. "Tywin Lannister murdered Rhaegar's wife and children, and his son Jaime...yet...here I am, marrying a Lannister, carrying his child." Once more she paused, and once more Sansa bit her tongue. "Apologies, I forget that you and Lancel..."

"He means nothing to me," Sansa finally blurted out, unable to control herself. But she wasn't speaking against Rhaegar, was she, so let her spit her bile to her heart's content. "Nothing happened between us, Princess. He's nothing to me."

_Because I finally know now what true love is, not what it pretended to be._

Daenerys laughed, an admittedly musical and entrancing sound. "Please, Your Grace, I assure you I bear no grudges towards your mutual history." Her face grew solemn, as the standoff resumed. "I don't expect I'll ever love him. But I will love my child, I will raise him, or her, to be better than their father..."

"What if they forced you to marry Tywin Lannister?"

They both looked at each other, stunned by the Queen's loss of composure, long overdue, but quickly Daenerys seemed to understand her meaning.

"What if you had to carry his child," Sansa continued. Once broken, the barrier felt vanished forever. "What if you bore Lord Tywin's son, and saw in your son's eyes the same eyes who ordered the massacres of your family?"

Her words had some sort of effect on the girl, who now appeared the more sullen of the two. Understanding that their impasse was complete, and won by neither, Sansa took a turn and began walking back towards her eager and awaiting audience.

"I was born in the middle of the worst storm they'd seen in over twenty years, they told me." The Princess's voice drifted in from behind her, her gait having outpaced the shorter woman's, much less Daenerys's condition, yet the way she spoke, as if in a trance, as if telling her still unborn child a story, rather than addressing a Queen, Sansa couldn't help but stop and steal a glance back at the older woman. "My mother died birthing me, on the small boat trying to cross the Narrow Sea, fleeing the armies of House Stark. I was too young to remember, obviously. But my brothers spent the rest of the journey on that same ship, carrying their dead mother, until we reached the shores of Essos."

She expected condemnation in her eyes now, the end of her act, and the resumption of the true feelings and blood grudges which lay between their families, but Sansa saw in Daenerys's purple eyes...understanding? Sympathy, even?

Her hands reached forward towards her, though Sansa did not reach out to her in turn. Nevertheless, Daenerys continued. "From what I hear of your father, he was a just man. He served justice to the Lannisters and their butchers, when many others would not dare."

How dare she even impugn that her father had anything to do with the rebellion instigated by _her_ family?

"Robert Baratheon and my father were provoked into calling our banners, Princess. Your father tortured and burned countless innocents to their deaths, including my family...and Rhaegar...well, whatever he felt towards Lyanna, he still left her to die in a deserted tower in Dorne, didn't he?"

She wanted the fight now, yet Daenerys infuriatingly refused to give the Queen what she wanted. Instead, she looked away, wandered to one side of the aisle, and fingers carefully avoiding the thorns, picked out a rose a deeper shade of crimson than all its neighbors.

"You're right," Daenerys admitted, again _sounding_ sincere. "My father was not a good man. And my brother...he's made his mistakes, he's committed what...acts he believed right." A smile, the first one which looked false to Sansa. "Perhaps it's our fate to suffer the punishments for the men in our lives, isn't it? They make their wars, they claim their women, their kingdoms, and...Princess or Queen...or Queen Regnant, in the end...our purpose to them is little more or less than a common soldier in their armies, a horse in their cavalry, to be passed and used to further their own names and positions."

It was a startling admission, one which condemned her own family in a way that could not have been feigned, not unless Daenerys Targaryen was the best actress across two continents.

"It didn't have to be," Sansa replied without thinking. "It's not the kind of country I would have wished to reign over, where women and children suffer endlessly. I didn't want this war with your brother, Princess, I inherited it, and understand I wi...that I would've defended my family and our right to the Throne because it was my duty to my family, to my country. But had Rhaegar chosen a course of peace..._truly_ pursued peace, rather than war through deception behind the veil of peace, I would have borne no ill will against your family, and let you live in peace in turn."

There was an unexpected twitch upon the Princess's cheeks, as if something she said touched upon Daenerys deeply, though Sansa could not guess towards what it may have been.

"You would have wished to make the realm a better place, wouldn't you? To do something, to use your throne and make a difference."

Sansa nodded. "I don't know how I could've done so. But I never got the chance to try at it, did I?

"You chose Viserys," Daenerys finally remarked, after a long pause of contemplation, "didn't you? It was a good choice, for the sake of your kingdoms. It wasn't a good choice, in terms of the man himself, but it was _your_ choice all the same. Yet, here you are, married to Rhaegar, and here I am, married to Lancel." Walking forward, Daenerys ran her arm through her own, and for some reason, Sansa did not fight her. Arms entwined, the Princess spoke as they resumed their procession, lords and ladies witnessing the strange and rare sight of Stark and Targaryen united, however transitory or false their truce was. Daenerys whispered into her ear, before they were to part and take their seats before the field. "Your dreams are admirable, Queen Sansa. Don't give up on them just yet."

* * *

**Young Ned**

Lord Beric performed well, riding through several rounds before falling to Ser Balon Swann, a reputable member of the Kingsguard who had been recognized worthy by the great King Eddard himself, unlike the scoundrels and mere boys Rhaegar had seen fit to appoint after the usurpation. The second day saw the melee, a chaotic contest won by a scarred man from the Westerlands by the name Clegane, Beric whispering into his ears that he'd served Tyrion Lannister most loyally, who'd served Queen Sansa most loyally in turn, until they'd all been betrayed by the underhanded tactics of the Targaryens and the treacherous Martells.

_"All the Marcher lords are with us," Beric had whispered to him, while they rode the short distance from Blackhaven to Summerhall. "Crow's Nest too, the Conningtons have taken nearly half their lands since the restoration."_

_"Convenient for us," Ned replied, "better that Rhaegar's adept at making enemies. The Morrigens surely help our tally." Griffin's Roost was far from the marches, and the King's new Master of War spent most of his days tending to the politics of the capital anyway, but they both knew that the long exiled Jon Connington proved a dangerous threat to their plans, whenever the war came, whether it was one year or ten years from now._

_"Aye," Beric agreed. "Red Ronnet too, he's got no love for his uncle, not after he took Griffin's Roost from him. Hatred of a common enemy makes just as reliable of an ally as actual loyalty and fealty. They won't teach you that, most knights, but it's the truth."_

_What you're saying is that Ser Arthur would've never told me that, were he still alive. Or maybe it's something he should've known, but did not._

"Lord Edric, you came!"

"Of course I did," he replied, finally finding the courage to seek her out that second night. "How could I not," he asked, as they embraced, her dark brown hair running across his eyes while they did so, "when you're here...when I could come and celebrate with the rest of the realm?"

Talla withdrew from their embrace, but Ned could not fail to notice that she taken both his hands into her own, and seemed reluctant to release them.

"Oh, I pray...I wished to everything you'd come. But...your Prince Doran has declared Dorne separate of the Seven Kingdoms, hasn't he? Does this...would it be war, if he found out?"

Ned laughed nervously. "So long as I don't declare any of my bannermen against my Prince." Not that he would ever declare his own banners, a substantial amount, Ned understood, on behalf of Rhaegar. But they were _available_, he'd assured Beric, after his last visit to Starfall and High Hermitage. Obviously they had to remain in Dorne for now, considering the state of diplomacy, or lack of it, between the kingdoms. "Prince Doran is not a tyrant, he has nothing against his subjects travelling freely, especially for diplomatic purposes."

"Ohhh," Talla said with a hush, covering her mouth with one hand as she stared at her old friend in wonderment. "Are you here," she whispered, "for a secret diplomatic mission?"

_You couldn't imagine it._ He embraced her again. "I come to see old friends, Lady Tarly. Come, have a drink with me, and tell me of these guests you have in your father's Keep..."

* * *

She'd never drank so much before. Ned had never seen it at least, though he could still count the times they'd met each other on one hand. Just how well did he know this woman anyway? A more romantic soul would claim to love her, to go to sleep dreaming of her and thinking of her when he awoke, but even at his young age, Ned had seen too much of war and the world to actually believe the songs of children. Yet it was true, that he did think of Talla often, that he did dream of her at night, marveling at her quiet beauty, at the shy young woman she'd grown into all these years later. And he could not deny she was the reason in which he could not sleep as easily, the closer the day of the tourney approached.

"...an' Dickon would win everything, if he's here. But father needs him at the capital, it's a shame, but the' say they'll b'more tourneys, wi' Rhaegar now..."

"You should tell your father to hold the next one in Horn Hill," Ned suggested politely.

Talla burst out laughing, drops of wine spilling from her mouth onto his hands. Ned laughed politely, and took in a drink of his own.

"They can't hold two in the same Kingdom, silly Ned! Maybe Casterly Rock next time, er Lannisport. Oh!" The more she drank, the more Talla kept swaying into him as she spoke. This time, her head fell upon his shoulder, and rather than move away or fidget, she rested there contently, her hair draping down his back. "M'be if there's peace agin', Starfall...you can have it in your own castle, imagine that, Ned."

"That'd be wonderful, Talla. I hope you'd be there."

Lowering his head, Ned looked into her eyes as he cradled her soft body against him with his left arm. Yet something seemed off. Her words were joyous, yet...

"Talla. What's wrong?"

"Whaddoya mean, Ned," she replied with a nervous chuckle. "Nothing's wrong, tis a fine tourney, a finer night, and I wouldn't rather anywhere else, er anyone..."

She kissed him. Her tongue tasted like the sweet wine they'd been drinking all night, the nectar he'd always imagined out of her her. Breaking away, he looked around them, seeing that every man still up seemed just as drunk as Talla, if not more so. Then, he took her lips again, and drank to his heart's content.

"Oh Ned, that was wonderful," Talla said, gasping as she broke away to catch her breath. This time, it was Ned who grabbed his cup for a deeper sip of the wine.

"What about Ser Loras," he asked hesitantly. "Aren't you still betrothed to him? And this is his castle, we're his guests..."

"Bugger Ser Loras," she replied with surprising vehemence.

"He's a good man. He's a fair man."

"He's...," Talla began, her voice catching, "he...oh, the things they say about him...and Renly...Baratheon! I...I can't...father mustn't know, but..."

The tears inevitably came, and Ned wrapped both his arms around her as she wept gently against him. Loras's secret had certainly been known to Beric, who'd not so subtly suggested to Ned that he should find some way of revealing it to Talla at the tourney, when he sought her out. It was his duty, and yet he'd dreaded it, knowing how the truth about her betrothed could break Talla, even if Ned were the one who could benefit from it, and through him, the Queen. The fact that she'd somehow already found out already should have made the ordeal easier for Ned, but seeing her heartbreak with his own eyes killed him, even though he hadn't been the one to break her heart. Not yet, anyway.

"I want you Ned." The tears had dried, and he felt her kissing him again now, her light and delicate lips brushing against his neck, his chin, back towards his lips. "I want you, I don't want Loras Tyrell, I want _you_."

"I want you too, Talla." There was no falsity to his words. They were entirely his own, and not Lord Beric's. "I really do."

She pointed over to a nearby tent, one belonging to one of her handmaidens who didn't have her own room in Highgarden, with the castle was at full capacity. "My ladies won't say a word, I promise y'." Rising, she took his hand, dragging him into the direction of the tent.

"We shouldn't," Ned forced himself to rebut. "Not now."

"Why not?" The way she cried, it looked as if Talla were the younger one, rather than he.

"It wouldn't be right," Ned replied. "You've had a lot of wine tonight."

"I don't care," Talla protested sullenly. "It's not the wine talkin', it's me talkin'..."

"And we're his _guests_," he reminded her.

Talla nodded, understanding sadly. Then, her eyes lit up, as an idea burst forth upon her wine-soaked mind.

"Ye' shoul' come t'Horn Hill, Ned! After the tourney...I'd love t'be you t'be _my_ guest. Come alone, Ned, an' I promise you, I'd be a much bett'ir host than Lora'sss...Tyrell."

They kissed again, their lips lingering upon each other's longingly, until Ned drew away reluctantly for the last time, kissing gently her forehead before he left.

"Promise me you'll come."

"I promise."

Walking back towards his tent, he reckoned that Beric would be most satisfied with the fruits of his night. He should be too, he'd gotten nearly everything he'd wanted from her. Her lips. Her heart.

Her trust.

Yet he felt worse now, than that night when he'd first killed a man in battle.

* * *

**Trystane**

The night was no longer so young. Lords and knights scampered across the grounds below the castle walls, stumbling over squires who'd collapsed in the middle of the field out of sheer drunkenness. A Kingsguard could not indulge such, not while on duty anyway, and unlike his other sworn brothers, Trystane's duties never came to an end, not when it came to his Queen.

_"I come here to protect you," he'd said to her, his first night assigned to protect her, to stand alone with her through the night. Having donned a white cloak at the age of six and ten, amongst the youngest to ever be such honored, Trystane knew his appointment had little to do with his own prowess and abilities, than moreso his family name. That of his great uncle, who was Rhaegar's most dutiful servant. And that of his father, who'd all but made war against his once ally and king._

_"Yes," the Queen had answered rather truculently, brushing her hair against the mirror deep in her chambers, "of course you have. Do so then, but be quiet about it please."_

_"You don't understand," Trystane had protested, daring to step foot inside her room. "I promised your uncle Benjen, I swear it. I come to King's Landing to protect you. Not Rhaegar, not his siblings, but my Queen, the Queen I serve solely. He would not have let me leave Winterfell otherwise."_

_It'd been reckless in hindsight, because Sansa could have screamed at his intrusion, and he would've lost his position at once, at best. But there'd been nothing to hide then, they weren't lovers, the mere idea unthinkable to Trystane at the time, though he could admit that it was not a concept entirely absent from the most secret of his desires._

_But his words had caught her interest, the fact that her uncle had willingly given up a hostage, though one of diminishing value._

_"My uncle Benjen belie...he trusts you?"_

_Trystane felt his heart breaking, right then and there, the way his Queen looked at him. She was so alone, so depressed, so bereft of hope as she sat before him, wanting so badly, Trystane could see in her sad blue eyes, to believe the words of a stranger, to trust him, even though Trystane would have not advised it himself, were it not himself, but another man. He swore then in his mind, before the vulnerable girl who yet dared to hope, that from that moment not a breath he would take that wasn't taken on behalf of his Queen._

_"I learned from Jon," he said carefully, "my years in Winterfell. I was useless with a sword during the war, all of Ser Lewyn's ministrations wouldn't have been close to enough to get me this white cloak. But Jon...he's the best swordsman I've ever known, and thrice the man. I owe him my skills, my life, my measure as a man. It's he you deserve here, by your side, not me...but I promised him too, before he left for Castle Black."_

It seemed overly dramatic to him now, but at the time it felt the right thing to do. He had knelt, then unsheathed his sword, holding it in his hands before the Queen, staring dumbly at him, hairbrush still in hand.

_"I pledge to you my sword, Queen Sansa of House Stark, First of Her Name. I pledge to you my life."_

_My heart_, he did not dare to say at the time, though she probably knew that already, Trystane realized now. His heart had been transparent to her from the very beginning.

_It's always belonged to you. From the moment I met you. Every cold and bitter night in Winterfell, since you left, I've thought of you, my heart's needed you._

"Lord Beric Dondarrion," he asked, entering a small tent at the edge of the small city which had formed for the purposes of the tourney, and would disperse just as quickly after.

"_Seek the banners of the lightning lord_," Sansa had instructed him, sending him off with a discrete kiss.

_"They can be trusted."_

_"How do you know?"_

_"I just do."_

The man's eyes studied Trystane carefully, before recognizing him, probably from his youth combined with his cloak, he figured.

"Ser Trystane."

With the older man he saw a boy a few years younger than himself, with golden yellow hair, and sharpening his blade by the small fire. This was good, he needn't wander across the other side of the castle to seek the man's squire out after this.

"You must be Edric Dayne," he said politely, "Lord of Starfall."

"Ned," the boy replied, looking up at him for the first time. His eyes were friendly, yet...there seemed something off about them. "Ned's fine."

"Lord Ned then," Trystane said, before turning back to Beric. "Is the Lady of Tarth not present?"

The Lord Beric cocked his head at his words, and Trystane saw that the young Lord of Starfall was no longer holding his sword so casually.

"The Lady Brienne is tending to her father in Evenfall Hall," Beric replied, though his voice sounded more like a hiss. Trystane saw an empty chair across the fire from the two, and gestured without words, seeking permission to join him. Beric nodded, though reluctantly, he thought.

"My apologies for my intrusion, my lord," Trystane began, unsure of exactly how to convey his message. "Her Grace instructed me to seek out the Lightning Lord, the Evenstar, and the Falling Star."

"Did she now," Beric muttered, ignoring a questioning glance from his squire. Trystane did not miss Beric's careful look towards his own sword, within an arm's reach of him.

"Her Grace told me you share mutual friends," he continued, bemoaning just how badly he was failing her right about now. "A good friend of Ser Loras Tyrell, whom is to be trusted."

"Go on." This time it was Beric who looked at Lord Edric, as if motioning to his squire to hold his sword, for now at least. Or strike at him the moment his guard was down, Trystane could honestly not tell the difference.

"I know we fought on opposites sides during the last war, if not the same battlefield. I...I served Lord Benjen Stark as his ward, I served House Stark. And I still do, because I serve the Queen."

"Of course you do," the boy Ned interrupted rudely. "You're her Kingsguard, you'll serve her or good King Rhaegar will have your head for it."

Of course they didn't trust him, why should they?

"I promise you, I am devoted to Queen Sansa. And no one else." He sighed. "I don't know what else I can say to you."

_Please don't make me fail you, my love._

Somehow, his last statement caused the two to relent, first the boy Ned, who looked at Lord Beric for his further approval.

"What does Queen Sansa wish you to relay us," Beric asked, his shoulders still tense.

"My father is the Prince of Dorne," Trystane said, allowing his body to relax, forcing himself to vulnerability before these two strangers. "As of now, he recognizes fealty to neither House Stark, nor House Targaryen."

"Trustworthy man," Ned said, the first time he truly spoke out of his own volition, "isn't he?"

"Yet he is your Prince and liege lord," Trystane rebutted. Rather than back down, the boy glared at him with his blue eyes, daring him to challenge him further. But pride in himself or his family name was not why Trystane had come seeking these men, or this boy, in particular. His tone softened. "Understand, Lord Ed...Ned, that as a loyal Kingsguard and servant to King Rhaegar, I cannot seek out my father in Sunspear, I cannot speak to him, or even send a raven."

"But Ned can," Beric said, his bushy eyebrows narrowing in understanding. "As Lord of Starfall, Lord Edric has every right and reason to pay fealty to Prince Doran in Sunspear."

Finally, they were closing in towards the same page. "Her Grace asks after the safety and comfort of her sister, before all."

"As she should," Beric replied promptly. "Your father's actions in taking the Princess Arya are disgraceful, and degrade your family name before all seven kingdoms, whether they pay fealty to the Iron Throne or not."

"I agree wholeheartedly," Trystane said, his eyes downcast, wondering whether he would be doomed to pay for the sins of his father until his dying day. "But things can change, can't they? My father is an ambitious man. He wished to place a...child...of his, beside the Iron Throne. And he wishes to see his grandchild sit upon it one day. The last time he tried _forcing_ it, and that was very wrong of him. But...," he coughed nervously, "speaking as the son of Doran Martell...perhaps such ambitions can be realized more _naturally_, this time."

Understanding dawned in both their faces at the same time. _The boy's not as dim as I'd thought._

"This is Queen Sansa's message," Beric asked, Trystane feeling himself under as much scrutiny as he'd ever been subjected to.

"Her sincerest wishes," he replied. "Mine as well."

There was a long pause as all three of them, a man, a boy, and someone in between, glared at each other over the night's fire.

"I am loyal to Dorne," Ned finally said. "I am loyal to your father. I do believe that it is finally time I paid my respects to my Prince."

He did not speak like a Dornishman, Trystane thought, but then he'd heard that the boy had accompanied the lightning lord for nearly six years now, that he was more probably more Andal than Rhoynar after so much time. But then Sansa told him too, that he spoke like a Northman, the years in Winterfell having left its mark upon the former hostage.

_What interesting allies she is able to make, in whom she inspires the most absolute loyalty._

"I shan't intrude upon you longer," Trystane said, rising. There was little in casual conversation he could think of, now that his message, his Queen's message, had been properly delivered.

"Prince Trystane," Ned rose too, and the two Dornishmen clasped their hands together. "I'll give your regards to your father."

It was one thing to speak treason, Trystane thought, walking back through the cold night, a night permeated by the tidings of winter even this far south. It was another to act upon it. And so they had finally acted now, and how delicate would their necks be, how well would their constitutions hold, for the bloody aftermath that was sure to come?


	23. The Dragon Awakens

**Tyrion**

"I finally have it!"

"Have what," his brother, who proved far better company than their father, asked, two Lannisters riding next to each other across the frozen wasteland.

"The everlasting words for House Lannister of Castle Black," Tyrion proclaimed proudly. "_Winter is Here. Roarrr!_"

Jaime rolled his eyes, but unlike their father, he laughed, and not entirely out of politeness either. "How the mighty have fallen," he remarked with a smirk. "I swear sometimes, seeing father fuming endlessly might be the only worthwhile thing to come out of this rotten exile business."

_That, and your former proximity to the Lady of Winterfell._

"I'm shocked, brother," Tyrion pretended to gasp. "Here I fumed for years in envy, that father would finally be forced to pay attention to _one_ of his children, albeit the one he liked most anyway."

Jaime shuddered. "You know what they say about men coveting what they can't have, some quote by sickeningly learned scholar or rotten king of the sort you'd probably had memorized as a child? I've always been envious of father's benign neglect of you and Cersei, to be honest."

"Yes, very benign." Before them loomed the walls of Winterfell. Tyrion did not attach much hope towards the success of their mission. Neither did Jaime, and it seemed an odd thing, that Tywin Lannister would be the most hopeful of their brood of lions.

_Or, father knows better, but remains happy for his sons to carry out a meaningless task regardless._

They were ushered in to the Great Hall of the castle with the usual northern coldness, and waited for some time before the Lord of Winterfell joined them alone and escorted. Obviously they could not stipulate in the raven's scroll the necessary discretion of their trip, but Tyrion thought that Benjen Stark was intelligent enough to understand that this was no simple request for provisions or men, even if winter was indeed along its merry way.

_He looks fatter,_ Tyrion thought,_ since the last I saw him._

"Lord Benjen," Jaime greeted, patting Tyrion upon his shoulder, "I believe you've met my brother before."

"You accompanied Queen Sansa," Benjen Stark recalled.

"Yes, those were the days," Tyrion recalled, "before all this treason business and what not. Except, alas I know too well now that the treason never ended, did it? That's why I'm here in frozen north, and my uncle..."

"You did remain loyal to Queen Sansa, didn't you," Benjen questioned, his narrow eyes facing the brothers from across the hall. "Else you wouldn't be here." There was a wary glance exchanged in Jaime's direction as well, and Tyrion worried just how much awareness Benjen Stark might possess towards a possible and devastating truth of their recently intertwined family. He'd meant to question Jaime, _truly_ question his brother, on their ride to Winterfell, because were the worst to be true, then it would inexorably affect their mission, if not their personal well-being, yet he could never begin to fathom as to how to broach the subject with Jaime.

"Many of us were betrayed," Tyrion said, seeing that Jaime was happy for his brother to do all the talking, despite his rank, and the fact that he'd been acquainted with Benjen Stark far longer than Tyrion. "King Eddard banished my father and brother to the Wall, it's true."

"Justly," Benjen snarled.

"According to many," Tyrion said, equivocating. "Yet the past is the past. King Eddard is dead...betrayed by the same men who betrayed my family. And yours."

"Hmmphf," the northman grunted. His eyes danced across the table, as if searching for a glass of wine that was not present, a sentiment Tyrion could sympathize with. "Cersei...," he began, his fingers shaking, his head looking about the chambers, as if plagued by an unseen ghost.

"She's a good woman," Tyrion said, trying to calm the man.

Benjen laughed. "If you know your sister, you truly do...she's not the easiest woman to be married to."

"I can imagine," he heard Jaime whisper next to him, then both he and Benjen looked about the room nervously, towards anyone except each other.

"But she's my wife. She's the mother of my children. I love her. I love my children. And she's been far more patient with me, than I deserve."

"She is the daughter of Tywin Lannister," Tyrion continued, after waiting for the man to finish, "and the wife of the Lord of Winterfell. It shows you how craven are these men whom my uncle chose to join in treason, to so freely insult our great houses."

"The Tully's, the Arryn's," Jaime continued next to him, "four great houses, that Rhaegar and his men have insulted."

There was a hidden rage in his brother's voice. Indifferent as he was, by temperament and by duty, towards the politics of the Seven Kingdoms, it was not politics which held his heart, but the plight of his beloved sister.

"Yet what can we do," Benjen's voice suddenly exploded in a rage, his fist pounding at the table. "Act, call my banners, keep discussing this treason with the two of you, and they'll slaughter Cersei, they'll kill all of them, my innocents..."

_The three children you love most,_ Tyrion could guess, having met the odd and standoffish heir to Winterfell, the only one lucky enough to have remained in the north during Rhaegar's coup.

"That's why we're here," he said, trying his best to remain calm. "We want to help you, my lord. And we wish to free our sister, our nephew and nieces. They're innocent, they have no part in these games we played."

"Ned never wanted to play these games," Benjen muttered under his breath, not entirely at his audience. "He just wanted to save Lyanna."

"No," Tyrion agreed. "And Sansa never wanted to play any of these games either. She did her duty as Queen. It was all she knew, and she did as they told her to do, until they betrayed her, and forced her into a marriage with her worst enemy."

His words were sincere, though Tyrion also uttered them in order to further gain the man's trust. Yet, Benjen raised his head to regard him with renewed suspicion, perhaps even hostility in his eyes.

"What do you want, Lord Tyrion? Or should I ask, what does Tywin Lannister want, that he's too afraid to ask in person, so he sends his two sons to speak in his place?"

"We want to help Cersei," Jaime replied immediately.

"We share common interests," Tyrion said at the same time. "Cersei. Her children. And I can't speak for Jaime or my father, pledged as they are to rise above the politics of the seven kingdoms for twenty years now, but fresh in my vows, I myself still feel indebted to your niece, whom I failed, whom I should have counselled better."

The older man continued glaring at him at first, before relenting, his shoulders slumping as he sank into his chair.

"They're pretty words, dwarf. But it's too late. You did fail her. I failed my family. We're all failures, and there's nothing we can do now."

"My father believes differently."

The suspicion returned as quickly as it receded. "Your father means to act against Rhaegar?"

"It would not be out of the question," Tyrion replied carefully.

"What does he expect, as a reward for breaking his vows? The Queen's pardon? The restoration of Casterly Rock to himself, or the Kingslayer?"

"I can't speak for my father entirely," Tyrion began, watching Jaime bristle at the slur, knowing that they were both being tested, "but hypothetically speaking, I believe a wife, a family, and an Iron Throne thrown in for good measure would be quite the ample prize for such a pardon, wouldn't you think?"

_He's not throwing us out of the castle, that's a good start at least._

The standoff continued. Then Benjen laughed. "What can the great Lord Tywin do? March south with all the Night's Watch against Rhaegar? They'd slaughter my family, _and_ _his_, all the same."

"I don't know," Tyrion admitted. "I don't think he knows yet, either. Not any specifics, anyway. But there could be ways, speaking again...hypothetically. There are still men in the Westerland who do not forget Tywin Lannister, or the fates which befell the Reynes and Tarbecks. Perhaps a mission to King's Landing on behalf of the Watch, warning the King of some grave and terrifying threat beyond the Wall. Send men men to travel south, in the direction of Horn Hill, under the pretense of begging the Crown for more recruits..."

"Rely upon the good name of the Night's Watch," Benjen interrupted sternly, "for your father's treachery?"

"Perhaps the reputation of the Watch may be stained forever, speaking hypothetically again. Would it not be worth it, for the safe return of your family?" The moment he finished speaking, Tyrion realized he'd made a mistake. Some things were more sacrosanct than others. Especially the Watch, in the North, in the castle of the Starks. He tried another route. "My father knows that there's nothing he can do without the permission of Winterfell. He has plans, ideas, but he can't realize them on his own, not with Winterfell lying between him and his only grandchildren."

The Lord of Winterfell clasped his hands together, shaking his head about unsteadily as he pondered the poison spit forth by his mouth.

_We're more alike than we'd both realize,_ Tyrion thought. _The last child, the youngest, never expected to lead. Then we get our chance, except we both fail most egregiously._

"You're considering it," he continued, to try and break the silence. "That's good."

"I am," Benjen muttered quietly. "I never thought I could entertain such treasons." He sighed, and Tyrion wondered how his father would react, when he returned to him for once with a great success under his belt.

"We are the ones who have been betrayed. Your family. Queen Sansa. How can you call it treason, when it's conducted against the basest of traitors?"

"You're a clever man, Lannister." Benjen chuckled again, though Tyrion did not like the sound of his laugh this time, for it sounded too much like defeat. "I wish I were as clever as you."

It was delicate now, Tyrion knew. Say the right words, and he'd had the man convinced. Or the opposite, just as likely. "I'd say we're all better off leaving the cleverness to my father, Lord Benjen."

"If there were even a chance, I'd send you back to your father with what you both want to hear, with what I myself would wish to believe. But...," Benjen snorted, shook his head, and rose to leave. "I'll forget this audience. You came asking for provisions, and I'll send you back with several wagons full of it."

There was no point in asking further, much less begging.

"That could've went worse," Jaime said, as they rode north through a snowstorm, trying not to squander the grain they carried, the only prize they would bring back to Castle Black for their father.

"Yes," Tyrion muttered, taking a healthy swig of his ale so that he might not have to feel the actual sensation of his frozen fingers snapping off his hands. "He could've thrown us into the dungeons, or sent us to Rhaegar in chains."

Though he wondered. Were Lord Benjen known as a more clever man, then Tyrion could at least report back to their father a certain implication, that perhaps the onus lay upon now Tywin Lannister to come up with a more solid course of action, before further courting the Lord of Winterfell with treason. But Tyrion did not have that certainty, though he wondered whether he ought say the same anyway, so as to buy some measure of hope for his father, however unwarranted. Or himself, for the matter.

* * *

**Lewyn**

"It's about time we did something about the Sparrows."

The King's Hand paced the small room, speaking almost as if to himself, considering that Rhaegar sat dazed and barely cognizant of their discussion.

"Certainly their elevation was necessary, if distasteful," the Spider agreed, "but in the long term I can only imagine the movement to have a most destabilizing effect, especially in light of Baelish's murder of all the septons, the fact that they're the only representations of the Faith in quite a few castles and keeps across the realm."

"Indeed," Tarly agreed unhappily. "I've heard word of some houses in the Riverlands converting to the Old Gods, Houses Smallwood and Lychester, maybe more. Not that I give two damns who wants to worship their damned trees or not, except their obvious implications for a Stark restoration."

A twitch in Rhaegar's eye, so at least the King was listening, and his mind still reactive to any threats to his throne, finally taken however the means. As if any of them ought to be surprised by the mess they would inherit, considering their victory was achieved only by sowing as much chaos, causing as much suffering as they could, throughout the Seven Kingdoms. While Lewyn did believe the Spider when he disclaimed any knowledge of the Sept's destruction, on his and Rhaegar's behalf, the massacre, such awful suffering never could have happened had Rhaegar died that day upon the Trident, and his one surviving Kingsguard with him.

_The Gods be real, losing sleep is the least we have to worry about when it comes to punishment of the divine sort, accepting and reaping so eagerly the rewards of that terrible crime. _ Something worse lay just around the corner, Lewyn had felt it lingering unseen ever since boarding that ship back to Westeros for his King's impending coronation.

"We've received appeals for the King's justice," Varys said, pulling out a drawer full of letters, "many of them concerning the actions of the Sparrows. Though, there are houses who have benefited who, as a result, have rediscovered their vigor for religion."

_Yes, and none more so than our happy few._

Tarly sighed, taking the letters and flipping through them one after another. "We can't make a move against the High Sparrow now. But we need to slowly wean the country off his cause."

"We need to rebuild the Faith," Rhaegar said suddenly. They were all surprised by his proclamation, though they all acted with varying degrees of success not to show it. The pronouncement was wisdom of the obvious kind, much easier said than done, but Lewyn found it at least encouraging that, after so many moons of malaise since that disastrous visit by the priestess, their King was stirring back to life.

"Prince Doran has the right idea, we need to appoint more of our own Septons, separate from the Sparrows. Even Lysa Arryn's doing the same in the Vale, gods knows what kind of men she's appointing, but it would seem that the Crown's the only party that's not benefiting from Baelish's destruction of the Faith."

"Yet how can the Crown act separately from the High Sparrow," Varys said deep in thought. "He is the Faith embodied now, any actions by us would lend to the appearance of bypassing the very High Septon we chose to appoint."

"If it can't be above, then it comes from below," Randyll said after a long contemplation. "When the court returns from Highgarden, we'll have Tyrell and Lord Kevan and Monfred Velaryon instruct their men to search the villages for wise men of character...because they known their own lands better than the Crown. Send ravens to men we trust also, Renly Baratheon and Lord Bracken in Stone Hedge, instruct them to do the same. The Hightowers will be difficult, I've heard Leyton's become a genuine convert in his old age, but...I know his son. Baelor's a reasonable man, I'll make a point to summon and speak with him about the matter."

Varys nodded, agreeing, though deeply absorbed in his own musings. "The High Sparrow has not been the fiercest proponent of rebuilding the Great Sept. We need ourselves a new temple, if we want to win the Faith back from the fanatics."

"I'll speak to Mace," Randyll agreed. "Have him send letters to the Iron Bank."

They all looked to the King, whose purple eyes returned to the present. "Very wise counsel, my lords," Rhaegar replied blandly.

It did not present a good harbinger, they all knew, for the King to refuse to travel to the first grand tourney conducted in his name and under his reign. Then so Rhaegar's Hand insisted on staying behind in the capital as well, despite the tourney being held within a few days riding of his own castle, for the stated purpose of counseling the King. Lewyn wondered if Randyll Tarly feared what Rhaegar could be capable of, if left alone. Probably nothing, he thought, besides mulling alone in solitude, providing evidence that the realm did not need a firm and guiding hand for it to sustain, not atop the Iron Throne at least.

But what if it was Randyll Tarly who ruled in all but name, same as Lord Tywin before Harrenhal? A Targaryen sat upon the Throne, an heir with the blood of dragon and wolf to succeed him one day, and a realm restored to peace, so long as they could gradually solve the problems like the Sparrows, which Lewyn trusted they could, able men like Tarly and Lord Kevan and the Spider. But what a realm they oversaw, Dorne and Vale independent, and the North lying somewhere in between? Lewyn could not help but wonder whether it would not be better for the Gods to take Rhaegar in his sleep one night sooner than later, and let the Stark girl reign as regent for her son, perhaps bringing at least the North and maybe the Vale back into the fold. Except Lewyn knew well enough that any power given back to the girl would result in a bloodbath, starting with himself and the significant amount of lords who'd turned their back upon her because of the plots of the Spider and the Littlefinger.

_Yet you continue on, knowing there can never be peace, because of the choices of the Prince you choose to serve. Not for the realm. Not for yourself._

_Seven hells, maybe they all get struck by the plague, Viserys included, and we sit the Princess Daenerys upon the throne._

"Your Grace," they all stated obediently, bowing as they took their turn of leave.

And he could not just forget that audience with the red witch either. Lewyn had always known that Rhaegar had been driven by some special destiny, a purpose, since the Prince had been but a boy. That a priestess of the fire religion could have encouraged such determinations was only a surprise in that it was a servant of R'hilor, as opposed to a more common sort of witch. After all, Rhaegar was far from the first Targaryen to become enraptured by the prophecies of an enchantress, though Lewyn had always guessed that his Prince's purpose originated with the same woods witch brought forth to the court of Aegon the Unlikely, or its hearsay, rather than a priestess of a god of fire.

Then, there was the question of just how much truth there was to the prophecies, which seemed to align, both of them conveniently enough pointing to a direct descendant of Aegon V Targaryen as some great hero reborn. Except, the priestess had changed her mind, hadn't she, due to the actions of none of than the honorable Lewyn Martell, in saving the life of his prince in the most dishonorable manner.

According to the priestess then, Rhaegar surviving at the Trident had forestalled some cataclysmic war arising from beyond the Wall. Shouldn't such news be cause for great celebrations, shouldn't Rhaegar cheered along with the witch, shouldn't he, Lewyn Martell, the aged Lord Commander who would likely lose a duel to any whitecloak under his command save perhaps Boros Blount, be acclaimed as the greatest hero the realm has ever known? Certainly not, according to the deathly mood in the room upon the witch's departure, or from his king's demeanor ever since.

"Ser Lewyn, a word?"

His mind still lingering upon his ghosts, Lewyn nodded absentmindedly, following the Spider into a darkened corridor.

"I share your concern regarding the Sparrows, Lord Varys," Lewyn began, though he knew the Spider did not need him for his wisdom concerning the order.

_Probably Dorne,_ Lewyn thought. _Probably some plot against my wayward nephew, something that'll get more Martells killed._

_Yet for my honor, for my vows, I must follow._

But it was a different Martell than the one Lewyn had in mind that the Spider brought up.

"Your great nephew Trystane, he is taking well to his new place in the capital, is he not?"

Lewyn frowned. What did the Spider care about the boy? Did he care enough to wish to involve Trystane in any of his infernal plots?

"I know Rhaegar granted him his place in the Kingsguard solely on my behalf," Lewyn admitted carefully, seeing no immediate way of escaping this conversation for the moment. "But Trystane works hard, he's a good young man...I hate to say it, but the years in the north was good for him, I think."

_If Doran stays his stubborn course, Trystane's the only family I have left, my own blood, that I'll see before my wretched life finally ends, may that day come sooner than later._

"I'm sure they were," Varys said cryptically, in a way to suggest that he believed exactly the opposite. "Young Trystane's skills with his sword are admirable. He is handsome, he is charming...perhaps maybe he'll follow in his uncle's place one day, as Lord Commander."

Lewyn smiled, he couldn't help himself. That he had the chance to spar, in the waning days of his life, with a boy of his own blood, after so many years away on the opposite side of the Narrow Sea, was a blessing he'd never expected for himself. "I'd hope so. You're right, he is young, and he has much to learn still, when it comes to leading..."

"When it comes to discretion," Varys interrupted, all traces of friendliness vanished from his countenance. "When it comes to _sense_."

Lewyn growled, as if a beast inflamed. "What are you saying, Spider?" Let the Spider play his games, but not with his young grand nephew.

Rather than flinch, or hiss back, Varys merely held one palm out towards him in supplication. "Please, my good ser," his tone seemed to beg now, "I mean young Trystane no harm. He's the kind of man the Throne needs, a young and hopeful face, beckoning towards a better future, and I'd merely wish to protect him."

"Protect him from what?" Lewyn was far from assuaged.

"Protect him from himself." Varys continued, while Lewyn stood confused and speechless. "I believe your grandnephew and the Queen are romantically involved."

There it was. The words were said, the most horrible of truths. Somehow, Lewyn was not surprised. Suddenly, it all seemed so obvious. Neither Trystane nor the Queen had been blatant about it at all, yet it apparently hadn't been completely unnoticeable to Lewyn, the way Trystane's eyes grew distant whenever the Queen's name was mentioned, the way his shoulders, his entire frame stiffened when she was nearby. The Queen he could little read, except her open disdain for everyone in the Red Keep.

_Except Trystane._

_Gods, how could either of them be stupid enough to act on it? Do they even know what great danger they put themselves in? Or does she care, is she trying to destroy us all, even at the sake of her own life, and her brothers', her son's?_

"How do you know?" The words emerged as a threat.

"I have my ways." Quickly, Varys moved to assure him. "No one else knows, who _shouldn't_ know, I promise you that."

He needed to be cautious, Lewyn realized, more cautious than he was being now. Nothing the Spider said was ever what he meant, none of his games were ever what they appeared. Whatever his intent was in informing Lewyn, it was not out of charity towards either member of House Martell.

"Why are you telling me this," he asked, "and not the King?"

The Spider smiled his dangerous smile.

"Courtesy," Varys said deceptively, slithering his way from one side of the hall to the other. "And prudence."

"Prudence?"

He winced, the eunuch, not an unfamiliar affectation from the man, but a strange one for the circumstance. "I do worry about our good King's state of mind. Ever since that night, with the priestess, I fear he has been...unwell."

It was an open secret in the Keep, yet Lewyn was just beginning to understand the ominous implications. Not for the first time did Lewyn wonder at just how out of his depth he stood, under the Spider's web. But he'd never thought it remotely possible that he could be the one entangled inside the web, much less because of Trystane, a young man he was growing to know and love anew. There was no sense in fighting it, his only choice was to play along, and see what lay on the other side of the Spider's labyrinthine mind.

"So what then?"

"I've told no one else," Varys said calmly. "I don't intend to. I believe we ought to be cautious, considering the fragile state of...things...everywhere. And I believe you ought speak to Trystane too, once he returns...on such matters of caution."

* * *

**Rhaegar**

It bothered him, how little he thought of Lyanna these days. Her beautiful face haunted him through every day and night of his exile, not a moment passed when he did not yearn for her indomitable spirit beside him, to help him endure the suffering. Yet, Rhaegar also knew that Lyanna might not have stood by him, after the war. She hadn't been too happy with his father, the awful business with the northern lords, that last time they saw each other, his child already growing in her belly. She hadn't listened to him either, when he'd protested that there was nothing he could've done, that had he been at court, none of it would have happened.

So he'd ordered Ser Arthur and Gerold Hightower to take her to Dorne, keep her safe until the war was over, because nothing short of joining Lyanna's brother in open rebellion against his own father would have pleased her. And both the Lords of Winterfell and Storm's End would have cut him down before deigning to listen to his pleas of truth, not that a Prince ought ever beg before his vassals.

_"Trust me, my love. It'll all be well, I'll see to it."_

He'd believed those words, riding off into the war. Lyanna hadn't, so she'd had the last laugh, after all. Of course his father wasn't fit to rule, but Aerys needed to be deposed through a Great Council, with the consent of the lords and the realm alike. Not through rebellion, so as to encourage further warfare anytime some petty lord had a grievance, justified or not, against the crown.

Not that Ned Stark's grievance wasn't entirely without justification, and Rhaegar prayed that the Quiet Wolf would survive the war. He had planned to pardon the man, the usurper who would take his crown within the year, so that he could make peace with Lyanna, House Stark, and the North. As to Robert Baratheon, if the Gods were good, he could die, especially seeing that there was already talk about how the man's thinnest sliver of Targaryen blood could make him worthy to sit upon the Iron Throne. Lyanna would shed no tears for Robert's death, no one would, save Arryn and the Stark boy, but the former ought be grateful enough for a pardon after the war, and the latter pacified once the awful rumors were put to bed, and Lyanna raised to her rightful place as a Queen of the realm.

He'd loved her. She had been his great love, perhaps the only woman his heart had ever craved. But it was not the ghost of Lyanna, but his newest wife, who consumed his thoughts these days. Rhaegar knew well enough that whatever his feelings was for Sansa Stark, it was not love, not towards a woman who so openly despised him in every single manner. Yet the more she defied him, the more he wanted her, in every possible way, to claim her as his own. He'd lain with her, seen her body, bare and luscious and full, the opposite of both Elia's and Lyanna's, he'd received only the barest minimum of what she was willing to give him, and Rhaegar could not deny his desire for all which he did not have.

These desires confused him. If anything, Sansa was entirely the opposite of her aunt. Lyanna was all fire on the outside, but once he'd gotten past her defenses, Rhaegar had discovered the sweet and loving girl hidden beneath her rough and wild exterior, the armor bequeathed her naturally by the Gods. She'd given herself completely to him, her heart, her body, those wonderful yet agonizingly brief fortnights before their last, bitter parting.

But Sansa...her armor was all meekness and courtesy to everyone save himself, and he alone could feel her fire underneath, simmering and barely contained inside her heart, Rhaegar knew it, because how could a woman so passionate in her hatred not be passionate entirely elsewhere. He wanted her, yet Rhaegar cursed his feebleness, because even were the Gods themselves to possess her heart, and transform her into his most obedient and loving wife, his infirmities would always prevent him from claiming her truly, and taking her as his own, as he did Lyanna.

_The Dragon must have three heads._

What was the point of it all?

It wasn't that the priestess Kinvara had made him look a fool, before Ser Lewyn, Varys, and his wife, especially his wife, who gloated through her eyes like she was the Mad King herself, watching burn those whom she condemned. It was the cruelty in which the witch had gloated similarly, as if taking a personal glee in his suffering, his betrayal, his failure, when it had been her words which had driven him towards war, failure...towards losing his family's great dynasty for twenty long years. Perhaps, had he never encountered upon her before Harrenhal, all his other plans may have come to fruition. The Great Council called, his father deposed peacefully, sent to live out his years in Dragonstone, his mother and wife alive, his children by Elia grown, man and woman today.

_Yet I never would've loved, as I did love, if it hadn't been for the witch._

He'd taken Lyanna for himself, because it had been his duty.

And because he wanted to.

Because he was the dragon, the blood of the man who'd taken Seven Kingdoms, because it was his will, his right. His blood had built Westeros, bound it as one, making it the wonderment and envy of all from the Sunset Sea to the mountains short of Yi-Ti. Not a red priestess, who reigned over but one temple in a city disunited and divided from its neighbors, doomed to endless war and irrelevancy. He'd seen the great cities of the east, and magnificent as they were, they stood but ants in comparison to his realm, his kingdom, built and forged through hundreds of years by the blood of his family.

_The Dragon will have three heads._

Maybe the priestess was right. Or this was a test. He'd gone so far already, with Lyanna...Harrenhal...the Sack of King's Landing, Pyke, the Great Sept. All this to make him a king in fact as well as name.

And so they'd won. And so his duty must continue, regardless of the mad ravings of a crazed witch

Prophecy or not, he would reign, as had his ancestors. He would retake all his kingdoms, as had his ancestors, he would build and restore the seven kingdoms as had the Conciliator. And he'd claim his wife, because she could not deny him forever, because he was the dragon, and she _rightfully_ his. Because it was her destiny, t_heir_ destiny, and no petty lord, no witch, no man or woman alive had the right to deny their rightful king.

* * *

**Sansa**

It troubled her very soul, how the sight of the Red Keep, her home, her castle, now filled her heart with dread as it loomed above their procession in the last days of the march from Highgarden back to King's Landing. The Queen had no real urge to travel to the seat of a family who had so grossly betrayed her, yet time away from royal captor had felt the most freeing, even if she still fell under the eye of other smaller, pettier captors. The frustration endured, when she could only see and not touch her beloved, but thankfully the return journey had yielded them several wonderful nights together, with much of the court distracted, exhausted, and recovering in one way or another from the long and raucous fortnight celebrating the return of the dragon.

The trip had not been done entirely without purpose either. Sansa could at least be assured of the loyalty of those whom Renly trusted. Were she lucky, then Dorne could be gained not for her cause, but for the cause of herself and Trystane _together_. There were whispers too, of unhappiness in the Riverlands, obviously, though is was discouraging the amount of river lords who came eager to pay fealty to men like Kevan and Mace and Connington, rather than the Queen and niece of their liege lord. But there was unhappiness in the Westerlands as well, she'd heard the faintest whispers of discontent in some houses at the usurpation of Lord Tyrion, who'd restored the reputation of the kingdom in the eyes of a few, and from others, grumbles about how the acting lord in Casterly Rock, her formerly beloved Lancel, was falling into the sway of the Sparrows.

Poor Daenerys. Sansa would almost pity her, if her goodsister weren't a Targaryen. Yet she had a feeling that if anyone could correct the course with Lancel in the Westerlands, it was the King's sister. And she would sincerely wish Daenerys all her blessings and luck upon the endeavor, for the sake of her person, were it not for the fact that any instability in the west would ultimately benefit her own cause, once she could put all her fractious and thus far, unseen and unknown pieces together against Rhaegar.

"Your Grace," Trystane said politely, kissing her hand upon escorting her into the Throne Room, her body shivering in excitement knowing just what Trystane was capable of when his kisses were not at all chaste. "I believe Ser Balon has your shift tonight."

"Is that so," Sansa asked, careful to withhold any emotion or joy at the prospect. "I fear I've been the worst burden on this trip, Ser Trystane, and I thank you for your patience with me."

Trystane bowed, but Sansa remained in the room, so he stood to the side to continue watching her, until someone else relieved him. The Queen walked up to the throne, once belonging to her and her alone, and touched at one of its handles. Her father's throne, won through blood, bequeathed rightfully to her by blood, by right, yet why was it that she dared not sit upon it, considering all the small acts of defiance she'd already made against Rhaegar since the usurpation?

"The King requests your presence," a deep voice announced, echoing against the cavernous walls. It was Lewyn Martell, interrupting her brief moment of peace, just herself, her love, and her throne. Rhaegar's Lord Commander nodded to Trystane, gesturing without words that he would take over now the supervision of his King's unruly Queen.

Careful not to gaze longingly at Trystane as she departed, the Queen followed the older man into the King's chambers, wondering at the irony of how she could hate this usurper's accomplice so much, yet love his blood relation ever more deeply. Rhaegar sat in his chair, facing outwards towards the small window. Ser Lewyn announced her, and Sansa stood where she was, refusing to bow, or pay the King any of her courtesy or respects.

"She hated him," Rhaegar said, turning his eyes to meet her. "Robert. She never wanted to marry him."

"Robert?" What nonsense was he uttering now? Just how deeply had his mind become entrapped in his sordid past, while he lingered alone in the Keep when the rest of the realm turned up at Highgarden. "Robert Baratheon?"

"You believe him to be a great man, don't you? A martyr. The handsome young and valiant warrior, who gave his life for the sake of Ned Stark's crown." Closing his eyes, as if the mere mention of his former rival caused him physical pain, Rhaegar continued. "Lyanna chose me. Not Robert. He wasn't worthy of her, he never was. He'd birthed several bastards by then, Lyanna knew it, that's why she chose me."

_Robert bore bastards, so Lyanna chose you, a married man with two children?_

_He's mad,_ she thought, her skin prickling up in fear._ He acts calm and regal and royal, but in his heart he's as truly mad as his father._

"My lord," she said, yielding to him in tone because she was now actually afraid. Sansa looked questioningly at Ser Lewyn, whose face revealed nothing, as usual. "I fail to understand..."

"You will be worthy of your title," Rhaegar interrupted her very abruptly. "You will do your duty, as Queen, to your King, to your country. You will resume your place in my chambers at night, until you bear a second child for me."

Her heart raged at his sudden and unexpected pronouncement. _I will die before I birth another dragonspawn,_ Sansa wanted to scream. Yet, a part of her soul wanted to just give in, so that she call Rhaegar to keep to his word, and allow her to leave King's Landing, and her captivity, forever, once she'd fulfilled her so-called duty to the house of the dragon.

_And thus give up my rightful place in the capital? And yield forever my family's name and dynasty?_

Without another word, Sansa turned to leave to her own chambers. She would think, she would contemplate, she would plot and rage in her mind, but none of the roads ahead, that she could envision, seemed one she wished to embark upon, and any hopes she held for herself, her family, for Trystane, seemed so impossibly distant.


	24. The Wars to Come

**Young Ned**

Trystane's brother looked nothing like the boy he met at Highgarden. His face was wider, his frame pudgier, but it wasn't just his physical appearance which struck upon Ned, but the slouch, Quentyn's awkwardness, his completely ill assured mannerisms not befit for a Prince of Dorne, particularly as the eldest son to Doran Martell. He'd heard whispers of course, of Doran's eldest child, a girl by Arianne who'd been said to be a rather overbearing woman before she'd had her heart broken by Robb Stark, so maybe Quentyn had been browbeaten as a child by his sister, as a henpecked husband would be by a shrew of a wife. Maybe Arianne had been too much older to affect Trystane the same way, seeing how Queen Sansa's devoted whitecloak possessed in his demeanor all the confidence of a man who'd been appointed to the Kingsguard at six and ten, then taken his Queen's heart, and whatever else, soon afterwards.

"Lord Edric."

The ruling Prince of Dorne was thin like his younger son, but looked to be quiet and pensive like his elder one. He seemed a stern man, possessing none of Trystane's light eagerness and even joviality, at least from what Ned could recall of their brief encounter.

"Prince Doran," Ned bowed, while Quentyn stepped obediently out of the solar in the middle of their greetings. "I apologize that this would be the first time I've paid fealty to you here in Sunspear."

"Yes," Doran replied, "there's many treasons we can discuss, can't we? Between House Dayne and Dorne..."

"And between House Martell and _many _of the houses upon the Iron Throne," Ned retorted, he had no intentions in being intimidated by the older man. "But that's not why I'm here, am I, to discuss the past, treasons and other matters as such."

Beric had told him to speak boldly, that men like Doran Martell did not suffer well towards either fools or cowards, and Ned could only hope that his mentor knew what he was talking about. Fortunately the old man looked expectantly towards his lumbering guard, who seemed reluctant to grant them their privacy, though he'd had no choice in the matter in the end.

"I gave Quentyn my sword," Ned said, forcing a smile upon his face, forcing his tone to appear more relaxed than he felt. "It's not Dawn, but he can keep it nonetheless, if my words displease our mutual Prince."

The Norvoshi man grunted and left to join the younger prince. Doran spoke again, Ned aware of how his eyes seemed to pierce his soul as he gazed upon him.

_Or is this a practiced mannerism, meant to convey more wisdom towards his own person than he does possess?_

"You bring word of my son in King's Landing?"

"By way of Highgarden," Ned affirmed. "Trystane loves Queen Sansa. Queen Sansa loves Trystane. Queen Sansa believes that the future of the Iron Throne lies between the two of them."

With all the falsities he'd practiced already with Talla at Highgarden, Ned had little patience at this point for further pretense. The message had to be conveyed one way or another, and either it would be successful, or it wouldn't be, regardless of how he might dance around with his words. The Prince's eyes betrayed no reaction, though Ned thought he saw a break in the rhythm of the golden robes covering his hollow chest.

"They told you this? My son, Trystane?" He replied him with all the banality of a man ordering his servant to clean at his boots.

"Aye. I did not speak to Queen Sansa. But I'd trust a son of Doran Martell not to lie about such serious matters."

_And his eyes made no secret of it, when he spoke of his Queen, though his words were more warier than mine._

"I see," Doran said. "Anything further?"

"I believe you understand well the delicate position the Queen finds herself in. Make war upon her cause, and she'd be the first one Rhaegar would seek to punish. Then her brothers. Then Lady Cersei and the Stark children in Horn Hill."

"That's what she wants? For me to declare war, then break into the very Red Keep itself to rescue her family along with my son?"

Said out loud, it was a preposterous breed of treason, but credit to the old man, Ned could not tell whether he voiced out loud the ideas seriously or out of ridicule.

"Anything's a possibility," Ned returned. "There are thoughts already, concerning the state of Benjen Stark's family. Their plight has not been ignored. As to the Queen, her family, and your son, King's Landing is surrounded by lands hostile to her. But I've heard word that the Dornish fleet was not entirely destroyed the last war. A ship, provided discretely..."

He trailed off on purpose. Fortunately, it was Doran's turn not to mince words, and the Prince did not let him down with his bluntness.

"Then Dorne rises in revolt against King's Landing, with Tully and Stark banners moving in from the north?"

"Arryn, perhaps, if Lady Lysa is moved by her niece's plight. Other kingdoms as well, though I see little purpose in forming plans too distant from us today."

"Hmmm." He was really studying him now, Ned realized. What could the old man possibly see in him? That he was a soldier? That he knew how to kill, and it bothered him less and less that fact? That he'd spent so many of his years away from Dorne and Starfall, and that he didn't quite care about it, that he seemed to hold with each waking day a troubling lack of nostalgia for his home, a childhood he barely remembered, with loving mother and father long passed? That he wished to only finish this journey to Sunspear, so that he could continue on that dreaded ride towards Horn Hill, where the heart of Lady Talla awaited him...that her heart was his to break, out of duty to his Queen?

"How old are you boy," the Prince asked in a low voice.

"Almost five and ten."

"You speak of inciting new wars," Doran continued, his voice almost guttural, "perhaps the greatest war this realm may see since the Stark Rebellion, or even the Dance of Dragons, as if it were some game for a child. I assure you..."

"Have you ever fought in a war, Your Grace," Ned heard himself taunting the man, addressing him condescendingly like the petty king Doran posed as. "You haven't, haven't you? _I have_. I've killed men, men who flew their banners for you, when most boys are still sucking on their wetnurses. I've killed boys younger than me too...I've saved the lives of smallfolk in the Rainwood by ridding it of bandits, while you sent your armies to their deaths in a losing cause, while you sit in your cozy little chair here in Sunspear."

He could not help himself, for some reason, there was just something about this man that grated against his heart in the worst way, the same desires as the ones flowing through his veins in the throes of battle. Did he just ruin his mission? That was bad, but in this moment Ned did not actually care.

"Are you threatening me, boy?"

"Boy," Ned laughed, feeling his heart pumping, as if still engaged in a duel. "I'm the second most powerful man in Dorne, Your Grace. The banners of Starfall, High Hermitage, and Yronwood answer to me without question. And others..." Calming himself, he stared the old man in his beady little eyes. "But I'm not your enemy, Your Grace. I serve your son, so long as he serves Queen Sansa, which I know he will until his dying day. You've made many enemies throughout all seven kingdoms, Prince Doran, for your family, for your kingdom. I'm trying to change that, but don't think for one second it'd be in your interest to make an enemy out of me."

_You idiot, what came over you just now?_

He was bluffing to a certain degree, Ned realized, as his blood began cooling. It was true, with the help of marcher lords, he could rally together a great army and take Dorne for himself, were that his wish. He'd send his Yronwood banners south towards Godsgrace, he and Thoros had agreed upon that. Brienne had suggested one combined push all the way to Lemonwood, forcing the Martells towards a vulnerable crossing of the Greenblood, but both he and Beric thought the best strategy was a two pronged invasion on either side of the river, the Yronwood banners luring a battle by the Shandystone, while a southern army starting at Starfall risked a more dangerous crossing to trap the Martells and cut them off from Sunspear.

They'd been nothing more than child's play of course, their words a game for soldiers. Ned had obviously no wish to take up some useless title of Prince, but the patrols along the marches were tedious, and they needed empty talk and games of war, of maneuvers and sieges...something, at least, to liven each night's air at camp. Maps spread out, fingers would trace lines down roads and across rivers, whether it'd be Dorne, or hells, even a war between Beric in Winterfell, and he attacking from the Riverlands. Voices raucous and wine flowing through his blood, Ned sometimes felt, studying the map for his next go around against Brienne, that he could hold all seven kingdoms at his fingertips.

But here, standing alone in Sunspear, they could do whatever Doran wished with him. Fortunately, the Prince did not seem inclined to such a tact now, despite his most impolitic outburst.

"You're nothing like your uncle," the man said cryptically, though Ned could not tell whether he meant it as a compliment or insult. "Forgive me, Lord Edric, but you're right, my dealings with others have been lacking these late years. The Queen's late Hand, I'd thought a friend, and I'd thought wrongly. Perhaps I'm too rash now, in seeing enemies where they do not lie."

_He'd be less forgiving of me,_ Ned thought, _except he knows he needs me. And I need him...well, the Queen needs him._

There wasn't much further to be said, except to ask permission to see the Queen's sister, which Doran granted, so long as his son accompanied him to her chambers.

"Are you still to be betrothed to the Princess," Ned asked, thinking that it was a message he needed to pass along to the Queen or her Trystane, before realizing that he'd probably not see them again, unless their impossible and yet still unmade plans somehow ended up succeeding.

"No," Quentyn replied with a nervous laugh. "They're to betroth me to a Wyl girl, father says it will be announced before the year is done."

_The Wyls,_ Ned wondered. _Not the greatest of families by any means, not one usually worthy of marriage to a Martell...except they're situated by both the Boneway and the marches._ More pieces of whatever war Doran had already been planning, Ned figured, except that all his plans ought be altered now with this new news.

"You seem relieved of it," Ned realized. "Did you not want to marry her?"

Another nervous chuckle, the older boy's grin so wide that he seemed upon the brink of tears. "She scares me a bit, honestly, you'll see. And she's a bit young for me too," he added hastily.

"I look forward to it." He did not. Nor did he like the silence which lay between them as they walked, though he could ride comfortably for hours with Beric and sometimes even with Brienne or Thoros with not a word being exchanged. It was odd, this aversion he had towards these two Martells, when he'd very much liked what he'd met before in Ser Trystane. "I'm sorry about Lord Cletus," Ned ventured. "I know you and he were close."

_He has none of his father's deviousness or ambition, nor his brother's ease. It makes him a decent man, a normal one, yet it leaves him unsure of himself because of the fact._

"Aye," Quentyn replied solemnly without much additional comment. The Prince had fostered with the Yronwoods for much of his youth. It had not escaped Ned's notice, how Doran had not challenged his claim to Yronwood, the castle having been bequeathed him by Queen Sansa after the failed rebellion along with most of their lands. "I hear he's a sellsword now, out in Slaver's Bay," the Prince said, in a way that made Ned wonder whether he envied his friend's fate.

"Seems like he was a bit too impatient in his exile," Ned remarked, enjoying what for once felt like a natural conversation, a first since his arrival in Sunspear. "He'd probably be Rhaegar's Master of Ships now, had he stuck with Connington."

"Maybe I'll sail one day to see him," Quentyn mused, his voice distant. "Father wants to send me with the fleet to the Stepstones, I'd rather keep sailing east after."

_I hope you know the blame lies with your father, if you miss your friend Cletus._

"The Stepstones," Ned asked, unable to hide his interest. Was Doran seeking to expand his currently independent kingdom? If so, how could this affect any war or reunion he'd make with the Iron Throne?

"Some Greyjoy princes have made it their seat after getting exiled from the Iron Islands," Quentyn replied, his voice disinterested. "They're disrupting the trade with the Free Cities, father says."

"They're a plague, I don't doubt. But wouldn't your father need you back in Dorne afterwards?"

"Arianne will inherit the kingdom," the young man replied with no bitterness in his voice, "as is her right."

They arrived at yet another garden, all looking the same to Ned. Quentyn shirked behind nervously, and Ned stepped forward to meet the younger sister of Queen Sansa's.

* * *

**Sansa**

"Oh, I so envy the Lady Tarly..."

"Oh, Lady Margaery, you have the most wonderful of brothers..."

"Is Lord Willas shy, he did not speak much during the tourney..."

On and on the prattle went. The Queen and the Rose of Highgarden sat side by side, but it was the latter who drew all the attention, not that Sansa minded, knitting absentmindedly a shirt for her brother Rickon. Jonos Bracken had seen fit to bring three of his five daughters to court, and naturally they sought out the beautiful Tyrell girl, fast becoming the bright new shining star of the Red Keep given the sullen nature of her Queen. Which was why Sansa had finally decided to join their small circle, to her own distaste. She'd made the effort at attending court when Rhaegar held it, as was her right, but the King's forays into the Throne Room were rarer these days, preferring to confer, if at all, with only his closest advisors in his private chambers, and Sansa knew well enough that Tarly would be most unfriendly to her presence when he presided in Rhaegar's absence.

There was little else for her to do then, besides roaming the gardens or sitting in her chambers plotting vengeance, all the while pining of the next time she and Trystane could be alone together. But little bubbles of treason did not arrive by themselves into the arms of an absentee Queen, so Margaery and her ladies could at least inform her of the going-ons of the realm, limited as their chatter were to the latest betrothal announcements, or rumors of, subjects Sansa would have gladly indulged in herself when she'd been younger.

"What of your prospects," she asked the Lady Barbara, Jonos's eldest, an admittedly pretty girl with hair tinged between shades of strawberry and gold.

The woman squinted her face up in distaste. "Father wants one of us to marry a Frey," Barbara replied, looking cruelly at her younger sister Bess, a girl close to Sansa's age.

"More than one," Bess added, appearing equally disgusted by the prospect, "if old Walder has his way."

"Have you ever met Lord Walder, Your Grace," Barbara asked, still possessing some sense of natural deference to her proper Queen.

"I have not," Sansa answered, trying to sound as friendly as she could to the girl.

"He's an _ugly_ man," Bess chimed in.

"And he's just taken his _eighth_ wife," Barbara added with a whisper, "a girl _younger_ than Alysanne," referring to their youngest sister.

"I don't envy that poor girl then," Margaery replied with an easy laugh, her scarlet lips lightly stained by wine. "But better she than one of you."

It was something to remember, Sansa noted in her mind. House Frey had gotten the best marriage they could wish to achieve with her uncle Edmure, the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. House Blackwood was amongst her uncle's staunchest supporters, having ridden to Sow's Horn with Edmure to confront Rhaegar, so why would the Freys now seek ties to their worst rivals in the Brackens?

"How many unmarried Freys are out there anyway," Sansa wondered innocently.

"More than a hundred, I dare say," Bess answered, giggling.

"I don't envy old Walder," Sansa said, looking back down at her needle, "that's a lot of marriages to arrange. I imagine your family isn't the only one he's seeking for marriages."

"No, Gods no," Barbara said, laughing as the wine dribbled down her chin. "I've heard father speak of the Butterwells, the Rootes, there's the Darry boys, I think Jayne has a thing for their eldest, a Lefford girl perhaps, for one of his sons...I've even heard word of across into the Vale, a Redfort for one of his daughters, or even the Hardyng boy..."

She'd remember the names, well enough to write them down at night. Her uncle would be well served to know which houses to be wary of, when the time came for her war to resume. Sipping at her own glass of wine, Sansa gave thanks that this day did not prove entirely fruitless for her.

She'd finished several glasses by nightfall, where she awaited patiently for a soft knock upon her door. Trystane entered without awaiting her answer, and Sansa rose, letting her body fall into his waiting arms as he greeted her with a light kiss upon her forehead, then her lips.

"Busy day," she asked.

"I sparred with uncle Lewyn," Trystane answered, always a smile upon his face, when they were together.

"Did you win?"

"I did." Sansa squeezed his hands in excitement. "I think he lets me win though."

"You underestimate yourself, Trystane." She pressed her hand against his chest, feeling the soft beating of his heart thump against her palm. "I know your heart, love. I know what you're capable of. One day you'll be the greatest knight in all the land, you'll be remembered the same way as the likes of Arthur Dayne. We'll win Seven Kingdoms together, you and I."

First he kissed her again. Then he laughed. "Easier said than done, is it?" Their lips met once more, and when he spoke, his voice was more hushed. "Do you think we can do it? Truly, just the two of us?"

"It seems impossible, doesn't it?"

It was impossible. Deep in her heart, Sansa could feel this. Half a fortnight ago she'd lain with Rhaegar, half a fortnight from now she'd have to do so again. Several minutes of awfulness twice a moon, brief yet impossibly long. And with each night together his eyes grey more lecherous, Sansa saw, the moment she entered his chambers, and when she departed immediately after, avoiding her gaze in his direction.

The last time he'd tried to touch her, placing a cold hand against her breast, and like reflex she'd slapped his arm away. Sansa had expected him to strike at her then and there, but his withered body lay where it was, neither of them acknowledged the incident, and Rhaegar didn't say another word after, but who knew what the next night with him would bring?

It would be easier, a voice yelled inside her chest, to relent, to give up the moon tea, give Rhaegar everything he wanted, and end her suffering. But this was her battle, her body, her womb the only army she had to wield at this moment, and Sansa did not mean to lose, though she did not know what victory even meant. Would Rhaegar give up, concede that one of them was barren though neither were the year before? Then what? Annul the marriage, send her away? Or have her killed discretely before she would ever have the chance to avenge her family, and herself?

The only thing Sansa knew for sure was Trystane. How he'd be waiting to comfort her, however long she had to wait. How his hands and his fingers and his body and his tongue made her completely forget her hated husband, one wonderful night at a time. How he'd stand by her side, how she'd give him the satisfaction of slaying her enemies for her one day.

Starting with Rhaegar.

"We have no other choice," Sansa whispered, sliding her hands underneath his vest, giving herself entirely to him, and taking him entirely for herself in turn.

* * *

**Lewyn**

He'd spent nearly half a lifetime getting his prince back into this castle. His quest completed, it dawned upon Lewyn that the keep they'd been rewarded with had become his prison, and his own prince and king his captor. Dread filled his nights, unsteady sleep, dreams of loved ones lost, and loved ones he could lose any day forward. He woke sweating in the morning, carried himself through the motions of the day as if he were a dreaded wight from the Age of Heroes, and went to sleep knowing that further slumber would provide little comfort for his soul.

The king rarely spoke, that was good. Connington's voice he'd long learned to drown out, Tarly was Tarly, typical like all the hard men he'd known in his life, but it was the Spider's gaze, an eunuch who'd never wielded a weapon so far as Lewyn knew, which he dreaded the most. Usually it remained that, just the occasional creeping and expectant stare when no one else was paying attention, vanished the moment his eyes returned to King and Hand to describe the latest quarrels between lions and roses and sparrows and all the useless junk.

So the night he found the Spider awaiting him in his chambers wasn't unexpected, and if anything Lewyn breathed a sigh of relief in the man's inevitable denouement. He ignored him at first, setting slowly his sword upon the table, then hanging his cloak against the wall, the same he'd worn since the day Aerys had appointed him several lifetimes before. Seeing that the Master of Whispers had brought a jug of wine unpoured, Lewyn helped himself to a glass, swallowing the liquid in one gulp, before pouring himself another.

"I know," the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard confessed. "I haven't spoken to him."

"I understand your hesitation, Ser Lewyn. But the fate of the kingdoms hang in the balance." The Spider's eyes looked sympathetic. Then, he'd been a mummer in his youth, hadn't he, wasn't that why he posed so well at such veneers?

"He's a good boy," Lewyn choked out. Was he sobbing? When was the last time he'd cried? When he'd heard of Elia and her children, upon arriving at Dragonstone, carrying the wounded Prince from the Trident in his arms? "He's too stupid to know better!"

"He's practically a child still," Varys agreed. "They both are, really."

"I wasn't a child," Lewyn said, feeling the wine already flowing through his veins, drawing forth memories long dead. "Far from it, I was a grown man and older than Rhaegar. I said my vows." With one gulp he finished his second glass of wine, and poured himself a third, all under the Spider's unmoved eyes. "Her name was Nat. She was a bastard, the daughter of a Brune, whom Aerys had working in the kitchens. They said she'd lain with the King too, for but a moon or two, before he tired of her, like all the others. I can't say I loved her, but..."

"She died when Tywin Lannister sacked the city," the Spider said sympathetically, "didn't she?"

_How did he know, when he'd never spoken of her name to another, ever? _But of course, the Spider knew all, didn't he? He probably knew about Nat even long before the rebellion.

"I don't mourn her," Lewyn protested more loudly than he would have wished, burying his other thoughts of the moment. "I don't deserve to, I never should have touched her in the first place. Who am I to lecture Trystane about such things?"

When the Spider placed his chubby hands over his own, Lewyn was surprised by the warmth emanating from the man's skin. "You're not the first Kingsguard to break your vows, Ser Lewyn. I don't imagine you'll be the last. But it was a serving girl you lay with. Not a Queen who was not yours to take."

"I know," Lewyn said. "He can't continue this much further. This endangers Ser Balon too, it threatens the entire reputation of our order. I'll speak to him first thing in the morning."

Varys sighed, relief, Lewyn thought, though it was easy for him to bid others do the dirty work.

"The Queen gets her moon tea from Lady Jeyne," the Spider confided, his voice more careful than before. It was not a terrible surprise, the fact that she remained barren having lain with both his grandnephew and Rhaegar over the last few moons. "And Lady Jeyne from...well, a serving girl in the kitchens, whose sister works in one of the brothels along the Hook."

"Rhaegar won't like to hear that," Lewyn said, the two men sharing a laugh at the irony of his statement, moon tea from whores being the least of their concerns, they both knew.

"The King needs his second child," Varys said, serious once more. "We both know this, his...mindset, is fragile, yet his will is determined. Secure his destiny, so he'd believe, and all the realm may breath their sighs of relief."

"But she needs to cease this affair with Trystane," Lewyn agreed, finishing his third glass and looking to pour his fourth. The pitcher looked almost empty.

"The Queen's continued presence in King's Landing is unhealthy, disruptive," Varys continued carefully. "She's no friend to the Crown."

"No," Lewyn nearly choked out the words, "she definitely isn't."

"I'll arrange to have the moon tea switched, next time it's passed to the Poole girl. Then the King will agree to send Sansa away, once he has his last child in hand. Not to Winterfell, that would be too dangerous. But Riverrun? We have allies in the Riverlands, they have no natural defenses, should she be foolish enough to seek one day the restoration of the dynasty of her father."

"Then you and Tarly and Lannister can rule all the kingdoms without a bump in the road, hmmm?" This was what the Spider truly wanted, wasn't it? Not to help him, or Trystane, but power, like all of them in the end, hanging balls or not.

"Given time," Varys whispered with a smirk, "perhaps we can convince the King to release the young Trystane of his vows. After all, like Jaime Lannister, he was far too young to pledge himself thus, and I'm sure Rhaegar isn't keen to repeat the mistakes of his father."

"Then he can ride north instead of south, in the direction of Riverrun, I suppose?"

Lewyn laughed. The Spider was good, he really was, there was something to be admired in the man, if he wasn't so damned untrustworthy.

"Only if Rhaegar never learns of the affair carried out currently," the Spider warned, sighing again. "We wronged the girl, it's true. Grievously. Were I a religious man, I'd say the Gods would not favor us, for what we did to her, to her family, that the worst of hells await us..."

"It's the least we can do for her," Lewyn interrupted nervously. He laughed again, though this time it sounded bitter, but then, who could blame his cynicism towards the Spider when he claimed his good intentions? "Is that what you're saying? Aye, whom has House Targaryen wronged the most? The Baratheons sure. The Arryns and Tully's, mayhaps you can place the blame on Littlefinger. But Houses Stark and...Martell..."

His own house. His own family, his blood, which he'd been duty bound to abandon, the moment he'd sworn himself to the Mad King.

The Spider smiled, seeing through every drop of his discomfort. "Small favors are better than nothing, won't you agree?"

* * *

**Trystane**

_"I know about the Queen. Other people do too. Ser Balon's a good knight, yet you risk his life for this charade also. End this now, before it gets any worse."_

His own father had rarely chided him, because his own father had given what little attention he'd possessed to Arianne and Quentyn. Then just Arianne, after Quentyn left for Yronwood. So Lewyn's words stung him as much as any he'd heard in his life, coming from both the eldest surviving member of his family, and his Lord Commander. It had come quick. His great-uncle had pushed him to the limit, hacking at him relentlessly in the courtyard, even kicking at his shin at one point, and striking his shoulder with his elbow, beating furiously against his body until Trystane's knees gave way. His great uncle had won that duel, then muttered out the words at swordpoint, whilst Trystane lay upon the ground. Then his fingers ordered him up, indicating that another duel was at hand, as if the most devastating secret in all the seven kingdoms hadn't just been outed by the man.

_"How does he know," his Queen had asked that day, when the gloomy clouds threatened snow and the wind bit at his skin. He'd pulled her aside in a corridor afterwards, most careful not to alert any additional suspicion._

_"I don't know. Mayhaps Ser Balon said something?"_

_"He'd never," Sansa replied furiously. "You say others know too?"_

_Her eyes were panicked, yet there was a wildness to them, and in her pale blue orbs Trystane thought he saw the same fierceness of the northern warriors, who'd cut so many of them down at the Bite._

_"They won't say anything. For now at least. Else Rhaegar would already have our heads. But I don't think they'll stay silent forever."_

Trystane had won that second duel, striking at his Lord Commander in a blind fury, so much so that he could remember little of it now. It'd been several days since, yet they both still lived, unmolested, yet tormented by each other's absence. Ser Meryn had guarded Sansa's door the next two nights, so it had been moot anyway, and Trystane was accustomed to waiting days after all. But anticipation was replaced by yearning, ever the more difficult it was for him to see glimpses of her throughout the days in the castle, glimpses which once represented hope, now transformed into despair, especially knowing that another man, the worst man, was to claim her within the fortnight.

Two nights of Ser Meryn, one night Ser Boros Blount, then it was time again for Ser Balon to guard the Queen's chambers.

_Control yourself_, Trystane scolded himself, lying restlessly in his bed. He'd tried drinking wine, so he'd fall asleep, and wake before temptation took him. But the sweetness tasted like ash in his mouth, and he could drink it no further. Minutes later, he found himself dressed once more, and making his usual tip-toeing walk towards the Queen's chambers, where Ser Balon nodded him in with a wink.

_So Lewyn hasn't seen fit to scold him yet._

_Either Ser Balon's mad. Or my great-uncle truly trusts me, more than I deserve._

The Queen lay half asleep, Trystane could tell. His eyes ran hungrily up the smooth skin of her arm, hands clutching against her wolf fur blanket, up to her bare shoulder, and his entire body shuddered knowing that she lay completely naked underneath.

Eyelashes fluttered, and a melodic yawn pierced the room.

"You came."

"To talk," Trystane forced himself to say. "Just that." Did his chest feel different, were his eyes burning? He tried ignoring it all. "We never had the chance to truly end things. I want that for you. For us. To say goodbye, properly."

Sansa sat up in her bed. The edges of her blanket dropped down upon her lap, her chest fell openly forward, a golden tinge to her pale skin cast upon by the candle's glow, and Trystane cursed her beauty. Her vulnerability. How her eyes protested so direly what he meant to say now.

"It was too good to be true," he continued. "We were bound to have been caught sooner or later. Better Ser Lewyn than anyone else...we'd both be dead."

She rose from her bed, all the glory of the Queen fully revealed before him. Even after so many nights together, the sight left him breathless, as Sansa walked up to the chair upon which he sat, and hugged him, wrapping her body around him so that his face lay against her stomach, below and in between her breasts. Cursing to himself, Trystane gripped her soft hips, as he had so many times before, except this time he pushed her away.

"I serve you," he continued. "When the time comes, I'm on your side, I want you to know that. My father...I pray he's heard from us by now. One day, once the war is won, we'll be together..."

"Fuck the war," Sansa interrupted him. He could feel his groin aching. For some reason, his body loved it all the more when she swore. A smirk grew upon Sansa's face, as if she knew the reaction she was eliciting upon him. "Fuck Rhaegar, fuck Ser Lewyn, fuck them all."

Her hand took his, and she turned to lead him towards her bed. The soft wolfskin pelt beckoned, a far more comfortable blanket to lay under, the touch of his Queen's skin next to him through the night, than his own silks atop his lonely bed. But Trystane remained fixed upon his seat and as he expected, when her eyes turned back at him, they were ones reflecting the deepest disappointment.

He heard himself challenged by his Queen. "You're going to give in to _them_?"

"What choice do I have?"

_Do I have another choice?_

Sansa laughed, her voice dancing musically upon his ears. "Ser Lewyn is your family. He's your blood. _Of course_ he hasn't told the King, he won't dare, because he'd be betraying his own house."

Was it so easy?

Was it _right_? To defy his elder, his blood, his Lord Commander?

"What about the others who know?"

Sansa laughed again. Turning fully, she took his other hand so that she held both, then knelt down before him, her knees brushing against his, Trystane's eyes inevitably falling downwards, towards the line formed by her milky thighs above the shadow her body cast, following them to where they joined together.

"If any of 'them' mean to tell Rhaegar, then we'd both be dead already." The Queen's lips met his hand for a brief second, before she pounced upon him, sitting in his lap, and Trystane had no choice but to hold one hand across her lower back, so that she did not fall. "Or Ser Lewyn's bluffing," Sansa continued, "he means to scare you, because he's the only one who knows."

"Do you really believe that?"

The way her legs wrapped around his hips, the way she positioned her body against him, as if they were already making love through his clothes, indicated to Trsytane that she believed it most sincerely.

"I need you, Trystane," Sansa pleaded to him, her eyes swelling with tears. "I'm to lie with Rhaegar again tomorrow night. I can't get through with that, not without you. I _need_ you tonight, to get me through tomorrow. I _can't_ do this, Trystane. Not alone. Not without knowing that it'll be all worth it in the end."

Suddenly she was no longer his seductress, but a girl, yet his Queen, her eyes, body, and soul laid bare and completely vulnerable to him, completely given to him.

"I'm yours," Trystane promised, one hand moving to grab her breast even as he held her upright with his other. "Always," he mumbled between kisses, one layer of his robes falling upon the floor after another. "Forever."

* * *

**Varys**

Lewyn Martell understood things. The Lord Commander was a quiet man, not a dumb one, Varys had long known of that. His face betrayed very little, which only meant the agony he hid in his heart must multiply ever worse.

"They try less to hide it these days," he grumbled unhappily to the Kingsguard sitting across from him. "My birds...they see Trystane leaving his chambers every night Ser Balon stands on guard."

"I failed," Lewyn grumbled across from him. "I'm sorry."

It was the worst failure Varys could imagine. And it was his own failure too, in that he'd trusted too much the sway Lewyn Martell could hold over the brash young boy. And the sway Sansa Stark held over the boy...Varys could understand that through his mind, if not his heart, or any other part of him.

"He disappears into her chambers, even when it's his turn to stand guard," Varys continued. The head of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard drooped before him in shame, as if he were an impertinent child sitting guiltily before his maester. "They're just being reckless now, it's a miracle no one knows yet but us."

A strange sound emerged from the man's throat, as if he were laughing and weeping at the same time. "They're deluded. Maybe they think the child will definitely be Rhaegar's...or take after the mother. If the Gods are good for once..."

"Or maybe they know differently, but don't care anymore."

The man buried his head inside his hands. He'd given up on drink, Varys had noticed, probably because life was already too intoxicating for him by the day, in the worst way.

"Trystane hasn't looked me in the eye since the day we spoke," Lewyn bemoaned, saying his name for the first time this sitting. "I should've known then, I should've..."

"There's nothing you could've done," Varys replied. "She's six moons with her child as of today, Maester Cressen tells me. If the numbers add up...if my little birds aren't wrong, and they rarely are...he never heeded your words from the very beginning."

This was bad. This was difficult. He'd expected difficulties in this reign, Rhaegar was no easy master, and the Iron Throne the worst of mistresses, Varys knew that from past experience too. But this was especially bad, he had not expected events to ever deteriorate in this uniquely horrible way. The King was not at all well, they all knew, his surly crown weighing more and more a burden to his Council by the day. There always posed the possibility of poison, this road he could never voice to Lewyn, or anyone else, though Varys knew that most of the Council would be relieved in secret, were Rhaegar to suddenly pass, perhaps die of sadness or exhaustion one fine night, thus leaving the kingdoms to their ever vigilant regents for another five and ten long years.

But the Queen had to removed first, because she was a child and unpredictable at that, because she had been truly wronged, because she would wish for vengeance upon those who would govern the realm responsibly through the next regency, though vengeance she did truly deserve, Varys could not deny, _except not at the expense of the realm_. And because Rhaegar would never allow Sansa Stark to leave the capital without fulfilling her end of the bargain, not knowing that his last head of the dragon may emerge into the world resembling too suspiciously his first wife. _The_ _cruelest joke of the Gods,_ Varys thought, one which he could appreciate, were he more distanced from the awful situation.

"What now," Lewyn asked. _Begged_, Varys thought. "Pray for a silver haired child to come out of her damned womb?"

_He wants me to make it all better, when he knows I can't. No one can, it's too late for that._

"We have to tell the King," he'd long decided. "His mind is fragile still. Perhaps there's a chance the child may not take after Trystane...but we can't risk it. The King can't be caught by surprise...we have a better chance of mitigating his...passions...were we to inform him of it in advance."

"Just us," Lewyn whispered. "No one else, no Connington, no Tarly...definitely not the Sparrows."

So he knew Rhaegar well enough too, except Lewyn needed someone else to voice the decision he very well understood needed to be made.

"And the Gods, Ser Lewyn," Varys said, rising and patting the forlorn man upon his upper arm, "whether you keep to them or not."

* * *

**Daenerys**

The castle was eerily still when she arrived. No one announced her, one of the guards merely left her inside the Throne room alone, babe nestled between her arms, and Daenerys stared fixated upon the throne of her father and brother until gentle footsteps interrupted her. It was Lewyn, and she'd never seen him so weary, so aged, as if he lay already astride death's door.

"Come quickly," he said urgently, grabbing her arm so violently that she almost dropped Lyonel against the floor.

"What is it," she asked, carefully clutching her child closer to her bosom, yet recognizing the sheer panic in Lewyn's eyes. Something was indeed wrong, Daenerys realized. She'd come to the capital, to present her child to her brother and Lord Kevan, and to give the young Queen her blessings towards one new niece or nephew. Now, Daenerys wondered at what viper's nest she'd unwittingly stumbled into.

"Your brother has summoned Queen Sansa." He looked away from her. "She has been consorting with one of his Kingsguard. There's a chance the child is not Rhaegar's."

"Trystane," Daenerys asked, before she realized what she'd even been saying. "The Martell boy?"

"You knew?"

"I did not."

_Not until now. Then it becomes so obvious._

_The poor girl._

_He's good for her. Except he shouldn't and would never be allowed to be._

She'd liked the young man too. He'd seemed pleasant at Highgarden. Extremely dutiful, Daenerys had thought at the time, to a fault. Now she knew exactly why.

"How bad is it," she asked.

"Perhaps the world's not ending yet," Lewyn replied with a laugh she knew was forced. "Your brother's not an excessively cruel man. He understands the marriage was not one of love, for either of them...and that the situation is delicate, because Queen Sansa's no ordinary Queen."

"No she's not."

His hands gripped at her arm, touching upon her as he hadn't ever dared to since she'd grown from a child, and he'd come to realize what she had wanted from him at the time.

"Come," Lewyn said urgently, impatiently. "Have one of your ladies take your son."

"Are you sure?"

Lewyn nodded, his dark eyes as intensely worried as Daenerys had ever seen him.

_He looks at me tonight_, Daenerys thought, _the way I've always wanted him to look at me._

"I fear...no," he mumbled at first, before taking in one deep and heavy breath. "You're a calming...good...influence upon Rhaegar, and w...your brother needs you."

"I'd say the Gods help me then," Daenerys said, her heart quickening as she looked about for her nearest handmaiden, "except they need them a lot more."


	25. Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken

**Young Ned: Year 303**

"A coat of red, a coat of gold, a lion still has claws..."

"The Rains of Castamere," Ned asked, perplexed.

"I like the song," Talla answered with a giggle. "I mean, I know the story's, a bit...grim..."

"I can't imagine anything grimmer," Ned laughed, brushing the dust off his coat. He'd ridden alone, and girl very much betrothed to the son of the Lord of Highgarden had sneaked him in through a hidden gate on the side of the castle facing the mountain. With Lord Randyll and his son Dickon in the capital, many of the men in the castle had been sent by the Hightowers along with one of their many sons in order to guard the most dangerous prisoners Talla's manor held, one small woman and three smaller children.

_"I don't think the Lady Cersei likes me much," Talla had said, guiding him through the tunnels, one hand holding his. "But her children are delightful. Except the Rykka girl...she's a bit much..."_

"Well, it's not like Jenny of Oldstones is all that cheerful, isn't it? That's your favorite, right? But, I mean, if you _really_ listen to the words..."

Fuck the songs. Ned leaned in, grabbed her small frame, pulling her over in his direction and kissed her as he did at Highgarden. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw wine spilling onto her bedsheet.

Talla wasn't wrong about his favorite song. It had been the first summer of his young life, that calm night in Blackmont, the crisp mountain air a refreshing relief from the blistering heat of Starfall, when they'd sang together, and Ned remembered butterflies fluttering through the air during the day, and fireflies at night.

_"The maesters say this summer will be a long one," his father had said. He'd been happy too, Ned thought. His father rarely smiled, not after everything which had befallen his younger siblings during the first rebellion. Less than seven moons after that day, neither his father nor his mother would ever smile again._

_"Did uncle Arthur ever love a woman," he'd asked, on the short ride back down the Torentine to Starfall._

_"He spoke his vows young," came the reply, his voice suddenly cold. "Never had a chance, I don't think."_

_It had been his mother who'd pulled him aside, the last morning before they were to arrive back home. His beautiful mother, whom he last remembered lying sick and agonized in her bed, tormented by both the disease, and the memory of a husband so recently passed._

_"Why do you ask, sweet Ned? Has your heart been captured by another?"_

_She'd laugh if I tell her it's Lady Talla, he'd thought at the time. She was older, and he doubted father would ever approve of him marrying someone from another kingdom, much less the Reach._

_"I was just thinking," he answered instead, avoiding his mother's question, "if I'm ever worthy to carry Dawn..."_

_"Oh Ned," mother had laughed, the most delightful sound. "Many Swords of the Mornings have married, you know that. Your father would be disappointed, he'd chide the maesters for neglecting your lessons."_

_"I know. But...after unc...Ser Arthur...would it be right?"_

_His mother looked around carefully at first. Satisfied that no one was listening, that father still lay asleep in his tent, mother whispered to him. "I have heard whispers, perhaps, that Ser Arthur did indeed love another. Some say it was Elia Martell..."_

_"Queen Elia?"_

_"The very same," mother replied, while his mouth hung agape. "Don't ever mention this to your father."_

_"I understand." His uncle. And Queen Elia? How could that be? "Was it...after he said his vows?"_

_"I doubt it," mother had replied, shaking her head, though Ned thought she wasn't entirely sure in her pronouncement. "I think...if any of the stories are true...Queen Elia would have been your uncle's inspiration. He would not need the Queen's love to love her. But more importantly, to serve her."_

Her lips tasted like wine, same as at the tourney. Seeing Talla setting her glass upon a nearby table, Ned gently lowered her onto the bed, and his own body atop of hers.

"Oh." She giggled again, as one hand slipped underneath her gown, his fingers pressing against her hips at first, before running them upwards along her smooth skin and onto her breasts, which he found fit so perfectly inside his hands.

_And what would Arthur Dayne think of me now? Seducing a woman, not out of love, but out of trickery?_

Or, from a different perspective, out of duty?

Beric may very well deem him worthy of Dawn after this. But, much as Ned respected the man, much as he could love him as his own father, that was not his decision to make.

_"Don't live for the past," his mother had said to him, while they both heard the shuffling of his father waking in the tent. "I know it's...different, to be a Dayne, than any other house. I can't begin to understand...I don't think I ever will. And your father might well say differently, but...from your mother's heart, Ned, listen to me, the only thing you can do in this life, is live for yourself. Not for ghosts you've never met."_

Her fingers tickled as they ran across his back. Hurriedly, he threw off all the layers of his shirt as she unbuttoned her nightgown, until they both lay naked together from the waist up, Talla arching her back and rubbing her chest against his. Her fingers now dared explore more aggressively than his own, as they reached into his trousers, and Ned shook as she ran them up and down his length.

"Are you ready for this," Talla gasped, her eyes shut as she grabbed at him.

"I am," Ned replied, readying himself as if he were preparing for a battle. "Are you?"

"No."

One word, whispered devastatingly, stopping him his tracks. Then, she started crying.

"I...I can't do this, Ned."

"You can't?" He pulled his body off of her. "I thought...is it Ser Loras? You told me...about him and Renly...how he could never appreciate you..."

"I know," Talla continued, gasping, out of unhappiness rather than pleasure, wiping the tears from her eyes with one hand while covering her exposed breasts with her other. "I know. Yet, I...I still love him, I can't help it, Ned. I thought I could forget him, with you, but..."

He stood up. Clenching his teeth, he picked his shirt and vest up from the floor, and pulled them back across his body.

She whimpered at him from her bed, not having moved. "I'm sorry Ned. You came so far, for me, but..."

"It's fine, Talla." Fully dressed, Ned picked up his belt, feeling the sword striking his leg as he buckled it around his waist. "I know the way back out."

The Lord of Starfall ran from her room, he could not bear to spare another look at her. The castle was mostly empty, and Ned paused, spying the backs of several guards standing at attention by the wing of the castle where the Lady Cersei and her children were being kept. Humfrey Hightower had ridden back to Oldtown for some new niece or nephew born to one of his sisters, taking most of his men with him, but having come alone, Ned was in no shape to risk a battle against the hundred or so Hightower bannermen who still remained to guard the hostages.

Beric would be pleased regardless, Ned thought, running down the empty tunnels back to where his horse awaited him in the woods, regardless of how his balls felt at the moment. He knew the castle now, he knew the defenses, and one in particular which remained unguarded. Perhaps Ser Arthur would be happy too, maybe it was his ghostly fingers from the great beyond which touched upon Talla Tarly's heart at the very end, so as to preserve Ned's honor while completing his duty at the same time.

_By the Gods, fuck honor, and fuck the great Arthur Dayne!_

Riding through the night along the narrow road, he saw a wagon carrying in the opposite direction. A rough and burly man steered it through the gathering fog, a common butcher, Ned thought. Forgetting that he'd not donned his lord's cloak and armor for this furtive expedition, Ned was expected the man to yield to him, only to be nearly ridden off the road in the last minute, before swerving his horse, nearly falling in the process.

"Watch it, boy," the butcher spit at him.

_I'll split you open, you useless piece of scum._

He felt his hands gripping the hilt of his sword before he'd even realized it. Gritting his teeth, he took instead the reins of his horse and continued riding east back towards the marches.

* * *

**Trystane**

"Any day now?"

Ser Lewyn nodded. Trystane was grateful for his visits. His great uncle was much better company than most of the men who guarded his room, though they did not speak so much as often as simply sit in silence next to each other, Lewyn sharpening his sword, Trystane gazing out the small window, staring across the Blackwater Bay, and thinking how he may never see the Water Gardens again.

"The maester says within a fortnight."

"What happens to it, if the child looks like a Martell?" Trystane wasn't sure whether or not he wanted the child to be his or not. His fate was sealed, no matter. But if the child were to be a Martell, it would be destined to suffer, and Trystane could not bear the thought, that any more of them had to suffer for his sake, Sansa especially.

"Even if he resembles the Queen," Lewyn muttered unsteadily. "I worry...any child not Valryian in feature..." he paused, coughing, before placing his arm around Trystane. "Varys has assured me the child would be taken care of. There are wealthy merchants and princes he knows of across the Narrow Sea, whose wives are barren. So long as no one ever learns the truth of this, so long as you speak nothing of this at Castle Black, the child will not pose a threat to Rhaegar. And the child will live, and live well, probably. Better than either you or I."

"At least I'll see Jon again," Trystane said, forcing a laugh. "I bet he misses me."

"He'd be a fool not to," Lewyn replied, patting him upon his back.

"He'll ridicule me endlessly for this," Trystane said, trying to think of pleasant thoughts while staring down at his feet. He felt naked, without his sword, and white cloak. "I'm well used to the northern climes already...though they say it's twice as cold at Castle Black than it is at Winterfell. And just as winter comes, no less."

"It's a better fate that most would fare."

His great uncle's words were deathly true. Everyone, from noble lord down to peasant, knew of the grisly fate of Ser Terrance Toyne, who dared love one of The Unworthy's many mistresses, and was rewarded for his love by being hacked to death, one piece of his body after another. And that had been just a mistress. Of course, Rhaegar was nowhere as mad as the worst of his ancestors, but Trystane knew that his relatively kind fate, including the imprisonment inside his own chambers rather than the Black Cells, had everything to do with the fact that Ser Lewyn Martell had dedicated most of his life to the King's service. Adding in also a father who may well make war against the Seven...well, Six...actually, Five Kingdoms, should he have suffered the fate of Ser Terrance.

"I worry about her," Trystane mumbled.

"You shouldn't speak of her," Lewyn scolded, though his voice sounded tired and resigned. "Especially not to anyone besides myself."

"What happens to her then, after this?"

"His Grace cannot mistreat her," Lewyn explained. "Their marriage brought peace the realm. Rhaegar gained his crown not through conquest but through marriage, and the invitation of Sansa's Regents, acting upon her behalf, through her sovereignty. In the eyes of the law and the realm, his claim is unquestioned only if he remains connected with the Queen."

Trystane nodded. "If the child is not Rhaegar's...she'll have to bear him another?"

It wasn't the picture of Rhaegar lying with her which bothered him, he'd long gotten used to that idea, however horrid. But Trystane worried how Sansa would fare in her ordeal alone, and without him by her side afterwards.

"Once Rhaegar has two children that are unquestionably his, the Queen will be sent to Riverrun. This has been agreed by the King himself." He then rose to leave, but reading his unease, Lewyn relented. "I'll watch over her for you, Trystane. I promise you that."

Leaving Trystane sitting upon his bed, Lewyn suddenly turned, bent down, and hugged him, Trystane rising to his feet and wrapping his arms across the older man's white cloak in return. They'd never hugged before, and Trystane worried, wondering whether there was something Lewyn knew that he was not telling him.

"It's a mess," he said, releasing his grand nephew. "But I'm grateful for the time we had together. It's a blessing I never expected to receive. I never thought I'd see family again. Especially after hearing about Oberyn."

"I'm grateful too, Ser Lewyn." He thought the man's eyes were welling up, as his great uncle turned and shut the door behind him.

_And my time with Sansa. How can I be grateful for it, when we were meant for so much more?_

He'd loved her, from the first time she'd sat down and spoke to him in the great hall of Winterfell. He came to King's Landing for Sansa and Sansa only, though he'd never expected for her to love him back, thinking that the best he could wish for was to admire her from the court, and perhaps give his life protecting hers one day. But he'd known, within a fortnight of his vows, they'd both known, though neither said anything about it for nearly a moon.

Then came that first night together. He'd followed her all day, it had been one of the worst afternoons of her first pregnancy. She'd been in such pain, rubbing her head in court, disappearing for nearly an hour in the privy, and arriving by her door that night, he couldn't help but lean his head inside.

_"I hope you feel better tomorrow, Your Grace."_

_"Ser Trystane." She said his name with a smile. It hadn't escaped his notice, how often she did smile for him. And how little she smiled for anyone else in the castle._

_And the way the sound of his name emerged from her mouth terrified him entirely._

_"I'll make sure I keep the grumpkins away from you tonight," he'd replied nervously. _

_Sansa laughed at that, but it was a sad laugh. Everything about her was sad. Not for the first time did Trystane harbor then the most uncharitable thoughts against the King he'd sworn his life and sword to. How dare they break and batter so horribly this beautiful woman before him?_

_"Please," she'd said, rising laboriously for him, to pour for him a glass of wine._

_"I can't." It was a vain protest, though Trystane knew it was not the wine he truly coveted, significant improvement as it was from the Northern swill he'd finally gotten used to. "I'm on duty."_

_"I can't either," Sansa had replied, rubbing her belly, the smile never leaving her face. "Better I see it given to someone who deserves it."_

_He didn't reach to kiss her, she didn't reach to kiss him. They just both knew, and came together, as if the currents of the great Trident river, destined to meet always the tides of the Narrow Sea._

It was meant to be. How could it not, something so perfect, so natural, so _right_?

_I'll see you again_, he thought, lying in his bed alone, the moonless night offering him little comfort while the irritated squawk of a raven echoed through his chambers. _I know we'll meet again._

It could be years, decades, but he'd take that. Sansa would be an old woman, perhaps, her back hunched, her hair grey, her son sitting firmly upon the Iron Throne, all memories of Rhaegar the Cripple vanished into the dust of history. She could finally then visit him at Castle Black, and she would, Trystane was sure of it, so long as he kept himself alive for her in the meantime.

Or perhaps she'd win her war against Rhaegar, Trystane knew that she was fully capable of it, and without his help either. Then she could release him from his vows, and...

Shaking his hopes away, banishing them from his mind, Trystane began to pray for the first time since he'd cried against the body of his dead uncle.

* * *

**Daenerys**

"He's beautiful."

"He is," Daenerys agreed, cradling her golden haired lion in her arms, her bare arms barely grazing against the clean cloak running down Ser Lewyn's back, next to her. "Are you jealous," she asked, turning her purple eyes upon the older man, whom she'd known all her life.

"Jealous?" The reply was incredulous.

"It could have been your child in my arms."

Ser Lewyn laughed, a nervous laughter, Daenerys thought, though she noticed that he shifted ever subtly away from her.

"You know that's..."

"Impossible," she replied, finishing his sentence calmly. "I know."

"Good," was all he said in return.

"They were the imaginings of a child."

"You're a mother now, Dan...Daenerys. You're no longer a child. You can't been seen acting like one."

She inched herself closer to him. He did not move away. Though she wanted more, she did not need it, Daenerys realized. What they had now felt together was...peaceful. Perfect. And she was content with what it was, not what it could have been.

"I've seen much of the world now," she said absentmindedly. "More than I had before."

"And what do you think of it?"

There was an edge of the dry humor hidden in his voice, taunting her, the same tone she'd remembered hearing as a child. Where had they both fled away to, for so long?

"Some of it I like," Daenerys replied, lifting her son up to her lips, placing the most delicate of kisses upon one pale and chubby cheek. "Some of it's shit."

"Casterly Rock?" Lewyn asked with a chuckle.

Daenerys cast at the older man a dirty look, one eyebrow raised higher than her other. "I prefer the Summer Isles."

"Don't we all," Lewyn replied wistfully.

Were she still a child, she's say something stupid, that they could run away together, and live the rest of their days loving each other in that warm paradise.

_But I don't need him to love me like that,_ Daenerys realized, lying her head atop his shoulder. _ I know he loves me, one way or another, regardless. And I know I love him, whether as a lover, or a friend. Or just Lewyn._

He froze at her touch, but Daenerys whispered to him calmly, as if he were her child.

"This is fine. This is all I need. This is perfect."

Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to merely enjoy this one blissful moment, and believe while it lasted, that it could last forever, that all the strife and pain and turmoil circling her brother's castle never existed.

"You'll be a good mother," his raspy words sauntered into her ears, "Dany."

_Dany. _

_How long has it been since he's called me that? Since I was a child?_

_Is that all I'm fated to be? A good mother, a dutiful sister, and nothing more than that, ever?_

* * *

**Sansa**

Lying in bed on her side, dreading and awaiting with bated breath her inevitable day of reckoning, the once Queen Regnant of Seven Kingdoms realized that she'd become completely a pariah in her own home.

_At least I had all Seven Kingdoms, save some stupid treasonous islands. May Rhaegar never claim the same for himself._

It was Ser Courtnay Penrose who guarded her nightly now, a man who'd once sworn fealty to her and her alone. They'd sent Ser Balon to the Black Cells, for keeping her and Trystane's secret, one more victim who had to suffer for her own stupidity. No one had seen Jeyne since that horrible night, and no one answered her when she cried out, asking about her dearest friend. She'd asked Daenerys, but the King's sister said she did not know, that no one answered her either. For some reason, Sansa actually believed her.

The irony that her only visitor was the sister of the man who'd tormented her in every single way and manner was not lost upon her, yet Sansa could not help but hold back her truest feelings in the older woman's presence, because by the Gods, Daenerys _was_ trying, and Sansa could almost delude herself into thinking that the Princess truly cared. At least it was an unburdened delight when Daenerys brought with her little Lyonel. Dragonspawn as he may have been, he looked more a lion than dragon, and it bothered Sansa that she would prefer the company of this child to her own Baelor, whom they never brought to her, and whom she'd never asked for.

_"He looks like a little Tyrion," Sansa had remarked to a beaming Princess, her face lit up with a happiness Sansa could only wish for herself to enjoy one day, however dim that prospect grew._

They were not fools. The moment she'd found herself with child, Sansa knew both their lives were over, along with any great game she still wished to play against Rhaegar. It wasn't Jeyne's fault. Sansa recalled distinctly taking her moon tea each time before any night spent with either Trystane or Rhaegar. Either they'd given Jeyne the wrong concoction, or perhaps the Red Priestess had been right after all, that she was truly cursed by the Gods.

There hadn't been a plan. Nine moons forward, she'd bear a child, and the Queen could only leave their entwined fates in the hands of the Gods, that whomever might emerge from her womb would not be Rhoynar in look or color, a flip of a sailor's dice. Somehow she suspected that she'd be unlucky once more. She suspected the same thing still, despite all of their assurances that no harm would befall her child, whether or not she birthed one with silver hair.

Their fear only encouraged their recklessness. That their worlds could end any day anyway, so why should they hold back? Those nights together had been the most passionate ones either of them had ever experienced in their short time together, and Sansa had wondered whether only the greatest of horrors could bring forth the greatest of pleasures. The inevitable night arrived, and she'd felt relief, Trystane too, Sansa thought, in that at least one of their many terrible uncertainties no longer hung over their heads.

They'd entered the King's chambers separately, her and Trystane, the grim atmosphere of the room betraying immediately the reason they'd been summoned. For what seemed like hours the King merely sat silently, staring at them, the other guests in the room, the Spider, Ser Lewyn, and the King's sister all looking about uneasily. Then, Rhaegar spoke the only words uttered for his audience that night.

_"You will both remain in your chambers until the child arrives."_

His voice was stone, but Sansa knew her husband well enough to see the fury swirling around in his demonic eyes, understanding that it took an almost unnatural willpower in keeping the king from the outburst that his advisors dreaded, and that which Rhaegar truly desired.

Only later did they tell her that Trystane would be sent to the Wall, that any child who was clearly not Rhaegar's would be sent in secret across the Narrow Sea. It was always Daenerys who informed her of her fate, never anyone else, and Sansa could be grateful, because she knew the Princess took care in informing her as gently as she could.

_They'll never allow us one last night together, or even a parting kiss. But will they at least spare us the mercy of one last farewell, before each other's eyes, before they send him away?_

Not for the first time did she not gaze outside her window, and think whether a swift fall would be her easiest road ahead. All her plans were dead. Her love, the light of her soul, to be banished to the cold forever. She'd try to carry on her mother's memory, her father's dynasty, but what was the point, when she'd failed for the last time? The Queen gripped her hands against the windowsill. Better than she join them, in whatever lay beyond...except what would she see in their eyes, except disappointment? That's what kept her on this side of the window, fearing that what came afterwards could be worse that the hell she resided in now.

Moving her two hands together, the Queen was about to pray, but then stopped herself.

Sansa whispered to the room, to the bay. "What kind of Gods would allow men like Rhaegar and Tarly and Varys to win?"

Or the horrible ones that came before them. Not that she believed herself any paragon of virtue at this point, but surely she was a better person in the eyes of the Gods than Rhaegar Targaryen. The Mad King had gotten what he'd deserved, but the gods had allowed men like Aegon the Unworthy to live to a ripe old age, hadn't they?

"Better to believe the Gods aren't real," she whispered to herself. Because the alternative was far worse.

Then, the Queen shrieked, her body gave, and Sansa collapsed upon the floor, as if stricken down by the Gods she'd just cursed.

* * *

The pain was not as bad as the first time. She felt numbness, even through the blinding pain, while the distant clamor exceeded that of Baelor's birth, maesters and handmaidens scrambling endlessly in and out of her room. Outside in the hallway she heard varied voices ringing about...Rhaegar and his Spider. Lewyn Martell, the coward and spineless man who called himself a knight, who would betray a child of his own blood. Even less welcome voices echoed forth too, the King's brother, Connington, all the worst of her enemies together, as they all congregated on purpose, circling around her like a pack of eager and famished crows. Only Daenerys had actually stepped into her room, holding her hands through the last of it, until they heard together the furious crying of a newborn infant. Opening her eyes, Sansa stared into eyes which belonged to Trystane.

The vultures descended upon her, and through the fog of her tears, she could see Ser Lewyn pushing King inside, a small pack of craven underlings following their broken leader.

Rhaegar's voice demanded the maester first, before all others.

"The child?"

"It's...she's a girl, Your Grace."

The maester held her daughter, _Trystane's_ daughter, and reluctantly pivoted away to present the child to the waiting audience. Rhaegar's eyes widened, and Sansa could feel Daenery's hands, who had gripped her ever tightly since her brother's arrival, leaving her.

_She knows too,_ Sansa thought in horror, her eyes seeing only the violent purple swirling in the orbs of her husband._ By the Gods she knows._

"Brother, please," Daenerys whispered, falling down to her knees against one side of Rhaegar's chair, gripping at his arms with her small hands which had been placed in her own moment earlier. "You knew this was a possibility...this should not be a surprise."

The King's hands shook as they closed into two tight fists, and Rhaegar lurched forward in his chair, as if he were choking on his own breath.

"Rhaegar, please," Sansa heard her raspy voice begging. "I'll be good, I swear, I'll be true to you..."

_"Kill it."_

"No," Daenerys gasped in shock, even though they were precisely the words they both expected well enough to fear.

"Please, Rhaegar," Sansa kept begging, crying even as she felt her throat drying, betraying her. "This is the last thing I'll ever ask of you, please, I beg you..."

Sansa meant every word. For the first time in her life, she felt the furious and undying love a mother would for her child.

_I'll do anything for her. I'll sacrifice my life, my soul, for her...for Trystane's daughter._

"Kill it," the King's voice rose, resembling more an awful screech from a hideous and unnatural creature. "Kill it now!"

"Your Grace," the Spider moved in, "we had discussed..."

"Please, my lord," Lewyn beseeched, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard falling to his knees across from Daenerys, by Rhaegar's side. "You promised, for my sake..."

_Gods, was the man so naive?_

"Will no man obey their king?!"

Heavy footsteps thundered forward. It was Ser Meryn. He'd appeared from nowhere, she hadn't heard his voice all night, and Sansa wondered how Rhaegar could call forth so many whitecloaks in such fear of a newborn babe and a helpless mother.

"Hand the child over," he ordered the maester.

"Ser Meryn," the old man said, trembling, blood from the birthing running down his hands and robes.

"Do it, or I'll kill you too." Meryn Trant's eyes were cold, they'd always been cold and unfriendly, she'd always feared him, and Sansa cursed her continued luck that the King would bring along this particular Kingsguard this night. Or did Rhaegar know all along what he'd intended?

"Please, my husband, I beg you..."

"Your Grace," the maester addressed his king directly, "you can't possibly order this..."

They all begged him, Daenerys, Ser Lewyn, even the Spider, all of them except for Connington, Meryn, and Prince Viserys. The King closed his eyes, rotating his head from one side to another, as if their voices caused him the worst physical pain.

"Please," Sansa cried, her voice barely a scratch now.

It was Viserys who doomed them all. "What are you waiting for, man?"

With that last prompt, Meryn Trant pointed forward his sword, and walked it calmly through the neck of her newborn babe, pressing forward until she saw the tip of the weapon piercing through the maester's back as well. The old man cried out, his voice dry and low, so it was still the shriek of her daughter that Sansa recalled, exploding through her chambers for what sounded an eternity, before all the room seemed to freeze into an eerie, still silence. They all stood as they were, before Meryn had advanced, shocked by the atrocity which just transpired, even Connington, all but Viserys and Meryn. And Rhaegar, who slumped back into his chair with a sigh of relief, as if exhausted after a long day of work.

_It can't be. No._

Feeling faint, seeing the candlelight swirling about her, blending with the eyes cast about her in horror and mouths agape, the last words Sansa heard came from the King's voice, now feeble, yet still commanding.

"Kill the boy. Kill the other boys too."

* * *

**Trystane**

There grew a ruckus down the hallway, outside his door. He hadn't been able to sleep, thinking of Sansa. Had the time come yet? Had it already come? Was he already a father, to a child he'd never meet? Still he felt awakened regardless, and rubbing his eyes, Trystane rose in his bed. Hearing the voices growing louder, he thought that they could be coming for him, and reached for his robes, the buttons still loose when his door was kicked open. He saw Jon Connington first, then Lewyn behind him.

"What's happened," Trystane asked groggily. "Did the Queen give birth?"

Then he saw the horror in Lewyn's eyes, and Trystane did not need his question answered.

"Jon, listen to me," Lewyn near but screamed. "You know the King is in a mood. It'll fade, and he'll regret this. Don't do it, I beg of you!"

The sound of metal sliding against metal, and Trystane's eyes grew wide, seeing the pale glow of the sword of Sansa's father, illuminated by the torchlight leading into his chambers from outside.

"_I_ won't regret it," Connington snarled. Swiftly he turned, pointing the tip of the sword against his great uncle's chin. "Away, Lewyn. I'm not a cruel man, you don't have to watch this."

_He's always wanted to kill me,_ Trystane realized. _Ever since the war, because I was young. Because I was weak, because Oberyn loved me, and he hated Oberyn._

"Jon!" He'd never heard his great uncle scream so loud. But it fell on deaf ears.

Seeing Connington rearing his hips, moving to thrust the gigantic blade onto him, Trystane closed his eyes, his last words a prayer before the end came.

"I love you Sansa. Remember me, I beg of you."

* * *

**Daenerys**

_"Viserys! Stop it! Stop it now!"_

She'd never seen her brother holding a sword before. What was he doing? Despite all his boasts, Daenerys knew, well before she'd heard the whispers of those who'd accompanied him during the last war, that Viserys had never killed a man before. Did he think now that shedding the blood of two innocent children would make him a great knight, when an entire war had proven him otherwise?

"Fuck off, sister!"

"My lord, Your Grace," pleaded the Spider, trailing the both of them in his unwieldy robes, having tripped onto his knees once already, along their frantic pursuit towards the Hand's Tower, "you can't do this! They are princes of the blood! We need them, your brother needs them alive!"

"My brother ordered them dead," Visreys answered with frozen eyes. "They are usurpers, they are traitors, they were born traitors!"

It horrified Daenerys, how closely his voice resembled Rhaegar's during that unbearable, unspeakable scene in the Queen's chambers. But this was no surprise to Daenerys. It had scared her much more, hearing the same tones emerging from her eldest brother, the man who raised her. How could such a man, whom she knew as practically her own father, be capable of such...evil...as to order the wholesale massacre of a child, and young men still practically children?

_What about my child? What if he ever saw Lyonel as a threat, what if Lancel ever did something stupid to offend him?_

_Could it be true? That our blood is truly cursed, that father passed down his disease to all of us, that none of us can ever hope to escape it?_

"Viserys, I beg you!" She'd screamed at the top of her lungs, and to her relief, he actually turned, and met her eyes. There was something wild inside them, yet something more lucid too, and Daenerys remembered the brother she'd first known as a child, before they both grew, and brotherly love and affection transformed into a cruel, leering desire. "She spared you," Daenerys gasped, out of breath yet forcing herself to continue to shout, because she did not know for how much longer she could keep the _other_ Viserys at bay, the one who nearly possessed his all for so long now. "She could have killed you, but she spared you. Please, my brother, you _owe_ her..."

"She spared me," Viserys whispered thoughtfully. Then his eyes lit up in fire once more. "That was her mistake. Go speak of debts to your Lannister kin, sister, dragons don't owe them."

"Your Grace," Varys said, advancing on the man while she stood there in shock, unable to understand the fact that he'd just rejected her, that he'd refused her so definitively. Daenerys did not even flinch when Viserys shoved the eunuch with all his strength, knocking him onto the tiles. Then he raised his hand, and Daenerys thought he would strike at her just as violently as well. She closed her eyes, she would not back down, she would not stand in fear of her own brother, either of them.

There was only a slap, stinging against the skin of her face, stinging worse against her soul than any physical pain she could imagine. Then heavy footsteps behind her.

"Ser Courtnay, get them out of my sight so I can do as your King bids."

Rough, calloused hands grabbed her, but Daenerys shrugged the whitecloak off furiously. For one moment, ignoring an unsteady Courtnay Penrose, she stared at Viserys, and thought of challenging him, _truly_ challenging him, this stupid _boy_ with his sword, and seeing just what mettle lay underneath his heart.

_No_, a shrill voice reminded her. _He's wrong, they're both wrong. But you can't. Lyonel needs you._

Slowly, she backed away, the Spider rising from the floor on the side of her eye. Courtnay went to help him up and lead him out, but Daenerys walked away first, not needing some dumb brute escorting her, though she did not even know where her feet would lead her to next.

The truth rang inside her mind...that it was _only_ Lyonel, which kept her from acting further.

* * *

**Lewyn**

He hadn't been there, at the Elia's end, and her children's . Oberyn then died alone in some frozen wastelands a continent away from their home, with only Trystane by his side. He'd thought it a curse then, to hear of his own blood dying left and right, falling like flies, whilst he, Ser Lewyn Martell, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms, one of the seven vaunted and anointed by Aerys by the side of men like Gerold Hightower, Barristan Selmy, and Arthur Dayne, remained helpless to do anything to help them, marooned half a world away each time.

_No, this is the curse. This is far worse._

There was nowhere for him to go. To seek out the King, whom he followed so far already, whom he was doomed to follow until his dying breath, even if Rhaegar ordered the next war against Dorne, and the inevitable massacre of every last remaining Martell? The Queen's chambers, stained with the blood of a daughter, a grandniece, never given a name? Certainly not Trystane's room, would they even bother to clean it, would they send his bones back to Sunspear?

_No, why would they, they'd just probably have his remains tossed into the Blackwater. And they'll probably order me to do it too._

There was the girl. He needed her. Only she could make it better. She understood too, Lewyn knew.

_Dany understands more than anyone, the curse of her name. And those bound by duty, by vow or blood, to serve and follow the dragon to the bloody end._

Yes, he wanted to see her. But he did not want her to see him. A failure, the worst failure in all seven kingdoms. An old man, useless and impotent, a waste of a life lived and given to weakness. She was weak too, she would take him in now, as she would have before, but Lewyn Martell did not deserve such a woman. He did not deserve anything, not a family and house name as magnificent as the one he bore. Not the love of a young nephew rediscovered. He served the dragon, followed him all his life because, in the end, were the gods real, Aerys and his son were the only masters a man of his sorry comport had been deemed in their wisdom worthy to follow.

He ended up alone in his chambers, though Lewyn could not recall the journey back. Slowly, he unbuckled his belt, placing his sword neatly onto his bed. Then his fingers reached to undo his cloak. Holding it before him, Lewyn eyed the fabric. The side facing outwards was white and brilliant, but inside hid the imperfections, the stains, the burns, the scars written from all the ordeals starting with the Trident, all the tears and marks as he'd accompanied his prince and his family to safety across the Narrow Sea. Lewyn had ordered the foreign tailors to mend around the bruises, so that he could always carry with him the weight and memory of his failures.

_What a stupid, summer child I had been, not knowing what was to come._

Slowly he tied one end into a knot, the Meereenese knot a sailor had taught him in Volantis. Fists pounded against his door. Lewyn ignored them. He was still bound by his word to obey their orders, that was true. But not for much longer.

The pounding grew more frantic. Lewyn focused on his knot.

"Lewyn? Ser Lewyn, please?"

It was a feminine voice which called from the other side.

"Daenerys?"

"Lewyn!"

"Dany..." his voice trailed off in a whisper.

"Please, let me in!"

An idea came into his mind. Leaving the cloak for the time being, Lewyn walked towards his desk, and took out a quill along with a blank sheet of parchment.

"I'm sorry for Rhaegar," her voice continued shrieking from outside. "He's awful, we've both known this...but I can't believe..."

"Stay with me, Dany," Lewyn said calmly as he wrote. "It'll be alright."

"Are you hurt?! Are you unwell? Please tell me!"

"When they find me tomorrow morning," he continued. The note written, he placed the quill down, and set the piece of paper back into the drawer.

A grave pause from the other side. "_Find_ you? What do you mean?"

"There is a note. I've placed it on the second drawer from the bottom, you'll be able to tell, the ink is still fresh. I want you to give it to the Queen, when you have the chance."

"Please, Ser Lewyn," the voice screamed with increasing franticness. "Whatever it is you're thinking, I beg of you..."

Satisfied, holding the cloak reverently with both hands, Lewyn stepped atop his chair, then his desk, running the unknotted end of the cloak around a wooden banister near the ceiling, fastening with his fingers a smaller knot, yet just as tight as the one below.

"I...," he began, as he secured the other circular end around his neck. "You...you meant...you were good for me, Dany." Tears streamed out his eyes now, had he not cried so, since hearing of Elia? "Too good for me. You were the only...good...and pure thing in my life, these last years. You. And Trystane."

Taking one last look outside his window, he saw the shadows of snowflakes fluttering through the frigid night's air.

_I brought this upon us all. I sailed to seek Doran, to incite him towards new wars._

_I'd thought I was wiping away the sufferings of our past. But I inflicted new horrors none of us could have ever imagined._

The screams continued, they worsened, but it was too late, and soon they would not matter. The tips of his shoes dangling by the table's edge, as he prepared to breath his last, Lewyn Martell prayed that there would be no one, be they Gods, or men, women, or children, to greet him afterwards. He did not deserve such tender mercies, but a man could still dare to hope.


	26. The Execution of Sansa Stark

**Daenerys**

The Red Keep stood entirely still, all of the vast castle mourning knowingly, or unknowingly, the bloody night when the Queen had given birth to her first daughter. Every corridor and room, every nook and cranny seemed stuck in the most excruciating state of sobriety, not a drop of wine was seen consumed from the kitchens, to the King's chambers, or the Tower of the Hand. Nor did Daenerys seek out any celebrations, comfort, or comradeship in the meantime, but did she allow herself to cry either, not since that unspeakable first night.

But all things arrive at their eventual endings, even the worst of horrors. Her procession arranged, Daenerys did not believe it appropriate to depart without visiting first the chambers of the Queen, particularly since Lewyn had bequeathed her something even she did not feel herself privy or worthy to read, without the girl's permission.

"You loved Trystane," the sad woman before her began reading, as pale as the melting winter's snow atop the roofs of Flea Bottom. "I did too. Do not blame yourself. Trystane's vows were his, not yours, and he made his choices."

The Queen ceased her reading. There was more, Daenerys knew, but she knew better than to further push the poor girl. If there was something Ser Lewyn meant for her to read that Sansa did not wish shared, then that was entirely her prerogative, no one else's.

_She's above my pity. I could have done something, I could have said something. But I didn't._

After several deep breaths, the Queen continued.

"But the fault is mine, all mine. The affair was known, by myself, by others, before your daughter was conceived. I could have done more to protect my family, my nephew, my beloved kin. That's what I thought I was doing, but my actions proved opposite. For that, my regrets are eternal."

Eyes downcast, the Queen set the piece of paper aside. It was the last legacy Lewyn would leave behind, but Daenerys did not rush to take back the letter as it fell to the floor.

"I'm sorry," Sansa whispered quietly. "You were close to him, weren't you? You can read it if you want, if you haven't already…"

"It was meant for you. I did not open it, I swear it."

_The poor girl, apologizing to me. I've suffered too, but nothing close to her._

_My dear Lyonel. What happened that night, I'll never allow to happen to you, I swear to you._

"I hate to leave," Daenerys said, standing alone inside the Queen's chambers. She'd never felt more uncomfortable in her life, yet Daenerys felt it her duty to bear the burden, because her suffering was trivial compared to Sansa's. "For Lyonel…with…everything that's happened, you must understand."

"I do," the Queen replied with no emotion at all.

"I wish you could come with me to Casterly Rock," Daenerys continued. She should leave now, yet she felt herself unable to step away from her brother's young wife. "It's not anything special, but it's a change, and a change may help you fare, I'd have hoped. I asked the King, and his Hand, but they would not allow it."

_Who are you trying to convince, except to yourself, to absolve yourself._

The Queen's mouth strained to smile at her, the saddest smile Daenerys had ever seen in her entire life.

"I thank you for your kindness, Princess, I really do." The Queen turned away, staring to the plainest piece of wall in her room, where she'd been gazing towards when Daenerys first entered, and she didn't know whether the Queen was awake or asleep. Or dead.

It all meant nothing, Daenerys realized. She'd done everything she could for the girl, knowing her brothers, knowing the crimes of her family. Yet, what did it matter, just what did all her small acts of kindness amount to in the end?

_Nothing._

"I hope the next time we see each other, it'll be in circumstances more favorable."

"I don't think we'll see each other again," Sansa replied, as plainly as stating a fact, that the sun rose in the east and set in the west. "I don't expect to step foot outside this castle ever…I don't expect I'll live much longer after this."

_Can I trust her?_

_More than most, when it comes to Rhaegar._

_He's a monster. And the two of us know this better than anyone else, alive or dead._

"They'll find justice," Daenerys continued. Her voice should have been lowered to a whisper, but to the contrary, the king's sister felt the greatest thrill undulating through her body, speaking truth were truth was merited, all veneer finally blown away to dust. "Your brothers. Your daughter. Prince Trystane. I…I don't know how…but whatever I can do, I _will_ do it, I _promise_ you, Sansa."

_You don't need my pity. But you deserve my help._

_I'll have my justice for Lewyn too._

For the first time since that horrible night, the Queen's eyes came alive. Contrasting them now to how they looked before, Daenerys could only wonder at her despair, and how close she had been to...doing something that she could not undo. That she may still do.

"If you want to help me..."

"I do."

"...then tell the truth."

"I will," Daenerys swore. By the old Gods and the new. By the blood of her ancestors. So that she may one day spill the blood of her brothers. "When Lyonel is safe in Casterly Rock, I will tell all the lords of what horrors transpired here, all the injustices of my brother's...madness."

It was true. Rhaegar was mad.

Or was he simply a horrible person? Was it madness, or evil, that consumed him all his life, as he plotted in Essos, while raising her, to murder another girl's father and tear down her entire world and inheritance. All Daenerys could be certain of now was her past blindness.

_No. I've known. In my heart I've known for some time._

"You don't understand," Sansa replied, her eyes wraith like. Bending her neck towards her unnaturally, Daenerys thought she saw in her a certain mad glee when she spoke. "The _actual_ truth. The _whole_ truth. How Rhaegar has always served the fire God of Essos all his life, how you remembered all this as a child growing up with him. The...the horrible rituals he forced you to bear witness to, he and his Spider, who came to him as an acolyte of the red god along with the High Priestess of Volantis, who came herself to the Red Keep to pay tribute to her servant. How he plotted to destroy the Faith of the Andals. From without, by setting alight nearly every single Septon in the Great Sept's destruction. Or from within, with men like the High Sparrow, who seek to destroy the faith by undermining it with hypocrisy and heresy."

"Yes," Daenerys replied, almost in a trance. "You're right. I do _remember_." A smile crept up upon her face, and the Queen returned her bitter smile. "I remember the High Sparrow, coming to us in Volantis, to pay tribute to his master Rhaegar. The horrible things he must have charged him with...this terrible secret which has burdened my heart for so long...it's no wonder I sought my escape, though I felt duty bound to return in the end."

"May you remain burdened no longer," Sansa proclaimed coldly, a Queen charging her subject. "May all the lords of Westeros know of this truth, from the King's own sister bore witness to with eyes once pure."

"They will, I promise you."

"Don't promise it to me," the girl replied sadly, "I won't live to see it. Promise it to my daughter, an innocent soul taken from this cruel world."

"I promise her too." _And for Lewyn, the life he wasted keeping to my brother until the day he could bear it no longer_. "But I hope you're wrong," Daenerys continued, before she departed this girl, perhaps forever. "Your Grace. I do hope to see you again, so that we may one day share in the fruits of the truth."

* * *

**Meryn**

He was tired. He was cold. He needed to get his balls off, the Gods knew he hadn't had any relief since the bitch's birthing room that night, with the Kingsguard reduced to four now, two dead, and the idiot Balon Swann confined to the Black Cells for the rest of his life, if he were lucky. A trip to the brothel was what he needed, the one on the other side of Flea Bottom which knew exactly how to cater him.

"Ser Meryn," Courtnay Penrose nodded, as he approached the former Lord Commander by the Queen's doorway.

"Get some rest, man."

What honor and glory is this, to protect some truculent child. Better Rhaegar had ordered her killed too, along with her treasonous seed.

The door was ajar, and Meryn could not but help peek inside as he stood into position. The girl lay in her bed, her back to him. Naked, no blankets laying upon her, her body bare for all the world to see.

"Your Grace?" Meryn stepped into the room. It wouldn't hurt to look. He wasn't an idiot like the welp Trystane, he wasn't going to do anything _but_ have himself a look. After all, it was his duty, wasn't it, to see to the Queen's condition?

There was no response. The girl lay deathly still on her bed, and as Meryn drew closer, he half expected to see slit wrists and blood red sheets on the other side. He hoped it, actually. The Queen was a bit old, compared to the ones he preferred, but it would not hurt to get himself a feel or two, so long as no one could accuse him of it afterwards.

"Are you asleep, Your Grace?"

Still silence. He stood practically atop her now, he could smell her, by the Gods, she certainly didn't smell dead. Perhaps the girl had fallen in a trance, a mercy the slut did not deserve, Meryn figured, considering her wretched impudence.

"Your Grace...are you alive," he asked, barely concealing his scoff. Leaning down towards the girl, he took in the sight of her bare breasts beneath her closed eyes.

And a knife, sharp and glistening. Suddenly, the girl whirled to life, and the last thing Meryn saw, aside from her vengeful expression, was the tip of the blade aiming for his left eye.

* * *

**Varys**

He went to seek her out, beside his better judgment. The Spider would remain loyal to Rhaegar, until the day he wasn't. His loyalties did not lie with the Sansa Stark. They never had and, considering the circumstances, they never would. But Varys was not a monster, and only a monster would not sympathize with the girl after the events of that awful night. He could also admit to himself that there was basic need in his heart, against his better judgment, to let her know that he never intended for her to suffer so, that he did not derive glee from the fact, despite how much of her suffering, Varys could admit to himself, had been inflicted by his own actions.

Perhaps there was some way he could assure her regarding her son. She would never rule again, that was clear. Rhaegar's time may fast be coming to an end, though this secret treason which he bore in his heart he could not confess to her. But a new day would approach, the era of Baelor II Targaryen, and Varys had vowed ever since that awful night, and probably some time before that, if he could be honest with himself, that he would see personally to the fact that the son of Sansa Stark would be remembered in the eyes of the realm the same or better as the likes of Jaehaerys the Conciliator. If only there was some way for him to convey this determination the girl, without her realization of the treason he intended. Nor did he wish to spread within her heart false hope, that his loyalties would be transferred to her out of pity, because that was definitively not be the case.

"Your Grace?"

Her door was ajar. It was strange, there was no whitecloak guarding it. For a second his heart fluttered in panic, already pondering as fast as he could the implications of the Queen's escape, before he saw her naked form gracing her bed. And a man knelt beside her, head lying behind her rear upon the sheets. From his white cloak, and his dark hair, Varys could tell it was Ser Meryn Trant.

_Gods, was the boy's mad lust infectious?_

Then he saw the blood dripping onto the floor, and drops of it spreading upon the bedsheets. The Queen lay on the other side of her bed, clean white linen separating her body from the massacre, and it was from this that Varys could tell that it was not the Queen's blood which had been shed.

"Your Grace, what have you done?"

There was no response. She lay deathly still upon her bed, and Varys wondered whether she'd taken her own life afterwards. Approaching the bed cautiously, he bent down by the body of Ser Meryn, bending his head to make sure that the deceased was indeed the whitecloak with the..._predilections_. Then, before he could react, he heard a flutter from the bed, saw the bare skin of the Queen leaping back to life, and felt the terrible pain of the blade sticking through the front of his neck.

* * *

**Sansa**

The eunuch collapsed onto the floor, gasping, unable to scream, and stepping around the bodies, carefully to avoid touching their blood with her feet, Sansa returned to her place in her bed, crouched towards her window and opposite her door in a fetal position, holding her now very bloodstained knife delicately, as if it were her departed daughter. The dead kingsguard's head continued to violate her space and sanctity even in death, rested against the edge of her bed, but Sansa did not bother, it was not worth it, to touch a dead man's head with her own fingers.

The Queen continued her waiting, whilst she listened to the Spider choking through his last death throes. She would be lying to herself if she said she did not care who was to step next into the room. It would be an unprecedented accomplishment, in her mind, to slaughter what remained of Rhaegar's Kingsguard. But it was the broken king himself whose blood she wished to shed the most. And the traitor Tarly. And the butcher Connington, who first killed her father, and then the man she loved. Hells, were the Gods kind, they'd give her the entirety of Rhaegar's Small Council too. But the Gods were not kind, so Sansa did not illusion herself with the idea that she could stick this knife into every man and woman who had betrayed her. She could only be satisfied with taking as many as she could, before they killed her.

A shrill scream echoed through her chambers, and Sansa heard the clang of a tray dropping against the floor. It was Alysanne, she realized, the youngest of the Bracken daughters, who had come to bring her breakfast, juice and sausages now spilled upon the ground. Instinctively she moved, as she did the others, baring her knife at the girl, though the handmaiden stood further from her than the others had when she'd stabbed them. The girl froze in shock, and quickly Sansa had her wrist in her hand. Her other hand held the knife, but as she began plunging it downwards, she saw the sheer horror and fright in the girl's face, her jaw shaking and quivering, tears coming from her eyes.

Without another word or further acknowledgement, Sansa released her wrists, and walked calmly back upon her bed, lying down as she did before. Hearing footsteps clambering desperately away from her and down the corridor, she knew that her game, brief as it was, was up, that no longer would they approach her blind and unknowing. So be it, that fact alone was not enough to stop her.

Soon, she drifted off into a light sleep. Thankfully, dreams did not plague her this time, though it was possible that she had not slept long enough to dream, because she was soon awakened by the clamor.

"By the Gods, the Bracken girl wasn't lying..."

"The whore, she really did it..."

It was Connington, and Ser Courtnay Penrose. Who once served her as Lord Commander of her Queensguard. Who surrendered to Rhaegar, lost his position, then regained it through the deaths of Trystane and Lewyn. Though her body felt impossibly heavy, Sansa willed herself to rise, standing naked as the day she was born, knife in her hand, ready to strike, to finish this last fight win or lose, except losing was certain in the end.

"Put the knife down, Your Grace," Courtnay said cautiously.

"Don't be stupid, girl," Connington added gratuitously, ready to draw her father's sword.

No one blinked. She saw there remained dried blood on her hand and wrist. Whether it was the Spider's or Meryn Trants, she could not tell, or care. Then she flung herself at the two men. Then she felt pain wreaking through her body, as she found herself thrown to the floor, landing into the puddle of blood next to Varys's body. Ser Courtnay had not drawn his sword at all, he'd merely tackled her, pinning both her wrists upon the ground, even as she continued flailing at him with her knife. The blade glanced against his arm, she'd drawn blood, but the man didn't flinch.

A vicious kick from Connington knocked the blade out of her fingers. The pain did not bother her, she'd known pain, she'd given birth twice, and now it seemed the entirety of her life. Her last and precious weapon taken away from her, Sansa could do nothing but scream.

"Kill me! Just kill me, and get it over with!"

"Calm down, Your Grace," Courtnay yelled back, panting as he spoke.

"I won't," Sansa shouted. "I'll fight you, I'll kill every one of you, I won't rest, not until you kill me!"

A heavy blow struck her face, and for a moment she almost fainted. It had been Connington's fist, the man standing above her now, her father's sword by his side, glaring down at her with evident contempt and disgust.

"You'll behave, girl," he ordered.

"Or what? Or you'll kill me? Please, I beg of you, spare me one mercy for once!"

Her legs kicked upwards at Ser Courtnay, shins banging uselessly against his armor, the infernal man having taken care to not place his groin within reach of her feet. Then another heavy pain at the side of her head. This time Connington had kicked her instead.

"Stop it, Connington, you're not helping!"

"She's gone mad," the red haired man rebutted, "what else is there to do?"

"Enough!"

It was the king, who'd arrived, wheeled in by Boros Blount. His voice carried nobly, as if he came a chivalrous knight coming to her rescue. Sansa remembered the last time she'd heard him speak.

_"Kill her. Kill the boy. Kill her brothers."_

_He still thinks himself an Arthur Dayne, even when he's ordering the massacre of children._

"Can you control her," Rhaegar asked, eyes refusing to meet hers.

"I can," Courtnay affirmed, even as she still writhed her body violently under his grip. "She'll tire herself out."

From the corner of her eye, she saw Rhaegar addressing Boros. "Find some rope, and bind her hands. We'll find smaller chambers for my wife. She is not to be left alone for a second, day or night. The Kingsguard will be posted within her chambers, eyes will remain upon her day and night."

Though she continued to struggle, in her heart of hearts Sansa knew that it was over. This had been her last war, and she'd lost, she couldn't even die successfully.

* * *

**The Hand**

"This is a disaster without precedent."

The Hand to the King paced the room, his head awash in worry. Powerful as he may be, Randyll Tarly knew he was but one man, one man could not place himself everywhere all at once inside the Red Keep, much less throughout all Seven Kingdoms. Yet, it seemed inevitable that disaster struck wherever he was not, even if he sat or slept merely half a hallway away.

"We'll need to recruit new Kingsguards, for one," Connington scoffed forlornly in a corner.

"Ones better than Meryn Trant for sure," Tarly replied. "Killed by a girl, what a disgrace."

_What a fucking disgrace._

"Now we're blinded too," Courtnay Penrose conceded, having rejoined the Small Council after the death of Lewyn Martell, at the same time the man's predecessor and successor as Lord Commander. "I don't know who'll be the next Master of Whispers, but I doubt he'd be able to fit the shoes of the eunuch. Not overnight, anyhow."

"Three Kingsguard dead," Tarly muttered unhappily, "one disgraced. We've lost two members of the Small Council, and we have to handle a Queen who's all but gone mad. The mob will think us unlucky, or fools, at best."

To be fair, Sansa Stark's spirit was admirable, if were it weren't for the fact that it was so aggravating, and so threatening to the realm. The girl needed to learn her place.

"The girl needs to learn her place," Connington said, giving voice to what he'd been just thinking.

"How can we expect her to," Randyll asked. "The fools placed a crown on her head and let the child play at sitting atop the Iron Throne. She's never truly bent the knee to Rhaegar, not in her heart."

"I don't think she'll ever submit," Courtnay admitted, fingers carefully mending to one wrist, where the girl had bitten him before she'd been finally subdued. "I wouldn't, were I her."

The King spoke. "You submitted to me, didn't you?"

A chagrined smirk on the man's face, carrying the shame of his defeat. "It was the law, Your Grace. I know my duty, I do it, like it or not."

It was an interesting admission, though Randyll had suspected for some time. No man would ever be satisfied with failure, though he could concede that Ser Courtnay had handled it as much grace as any man could. But he would have to be watched, Randyll noted in his head, so that he would never give in to his temptations.

"The girl needs to die," Connington said from the corner. They all turned in his direction at the end of the table. "We can't have the Queen herself trying her damned best to undermine us at every opportunity. Gods, she may actually succeed one time, given enough tries."

It had been Connington who'd said the words, but doubtlessly they'd all been thinking it. It was the smallest of the Small Councils, and Randyll doubted the Lord of Griffin's Roost would've ever said the words with softer men such as Tyrell or even Kevan Lannister present in the room. Nor would he himself have allowed it as Hand, longtime friend of Rhaegar's or not Jon was, for discretion's sake. There was Ser Courtnay too, he would prefer him not participate in such discussions, but then the man had borne witness to the girl's madness with his own eyes, hadn't he?

"What are we to do," Courtnay asked skeptically. "Execute her in a public square, before half a million people in King's Landing? They'll love us for that, once they've heard we've killed her brothers too."

So he wasn't entirely averse to the necessity, Randyll thought.

"That wasn't my intention," Rhaegar defended.

Wasn't it? He hadn't been there the night to hear what had transpired, but every account given him seemed to indicate otherwise.

"The crown can't afford any more embarrassment," Rhaegar continued. "No one is to know of the deaths the Stark bo...men."

At least he was speaking more. Depending on the circumstances, Randyll would prefer an active king than not, at least for appearances' sake, so long as it didn't interfere with his work.

"I'm afraid it's too late, Your Grace."

The king turned his purple eyes towards his Hand. Dangerously so, Randyll realized.

"What do you mean, Lord Tarly?"

He coughed uneasily, but the truth had to be told to the King. "I'm afraid I overheard the Lady Margaery and Barbara Bracken discussing...ahem, some malicious gossip this morning. They tried to keep quiet, once they saw me. I asked them from whom they heard, they said it was...your sister, Your Grace."

"Daenerys," Rhaegar asked, his face twisted in disbelief. "I'd sworn her to secrecy."

_How to put this delicately?_

"I don't think she means any harm. But the girl saw what happened that night. I don't doubt she's been strongly affected. Things like...vows, and sworn oaths mean less to women, once they're shaken and carried away by their own emotions."

"We need to kill the Poole girl too," Connington said. "She's a pain, she won't submit either, she'll continue to be trouble, I swear it."

"We shouldn't," Rhaegar protested. "Her crime was the moon tea, nothing else." It seemed an interesting change for once, perhaps Rhaegar regretted already his...outbursts, from that night, though Randyll knew the man would never admit it as such. "I know of men in Lys. We can send her there, she can keep to the brothels..."

Or not. This seemed excessive, even from a Targaryen. It was one thing to sell a serving girl, another for a highborn lady. Jeyne Poole was a northerner, and Randyll fully intended to bring the North fully to heel one day. But he didn't doubt that Rhaegar would forget soon this troubling detail. He could delay first, then arrange for her to be sent to Horn Hill afterwards.

"We can't kill the Queen here," Rhaegar whispered, returning to the main subject at hand. At first, he thought the King was speaking of his own sister, who'd already departed days before to Casterly Rock, before realizing that he was speaking of Sansa Stark. For once, his mind was on the right path. It was the encouraging, this had been Rhaegar's most lucid council attendance in some time.

"No we can't," Tarly agreed, clearly pleasing his king with his counsel. "It might be the deathblow to the Crown, after everyone else we've lost."

"And there's too many eyes," Rhaegar whispered, more to himself. "Too many...troubling...eyes...too many whispers..."

"Send her to Griffin's Roost," Connington suggested. "I'll have it done there, wait a few years, if need be...tell everyone she took her own life. It's not entirely untrue, either, she was beggin' for us to kill her."

The idea had some merit to it, Randyll realized.

"...or arrange to have bandits attack their procession in progress," Connington continued, thinking out loud.

"Can't have that," Tarly rebutted. "A King who can't protect his Queen from banditry is an equal embarrassment." The dim shadow of an idea crept into his mind. "Unless..."

"Unless what," Rhaegar demanded eagerly. So it would seem the King had already moved on, in his mind, in his heart, from his second wife. Or third, Randyll corrected himself, remembering the King's insistence that he'd properly wedded Lyanna Stark before giving her a child. He wondered who it would be next time. He wouldn't allow Talla, it wasn't worth it. Perhaps a Hightower? He tried remembering which ones would still be available. The eldest was betrothed he knew to one of the Redwyne twins, Horas, Randyll recalled, the heir. No matter, that was a headache for another day.

The Hand turned to the Lord Commander. "With all due respect, Ser Courtnay, Boros Blount is a waste. I know you're shorthanded already. Men like Ser Lewyn are irreplaceable, obviously. But anyone can fill in Blount's shoes."

And Trant's. That had been his mistake, to throw a sop at the Stormlands and Lord Renly, after Stannis's death.

"What are you saying, Lord Tarly?"

"There's a better way for a man like Boros to serve his King," Randyll continued, as the idea further formed his shape. "If we're going to lose a Queen who's sat on the Iron Throne, then at least let us make use of it. You, Ser Courtnay, can accompany the girl and Ser Boros to Griffin's Roost. Give orders to him to execute the girl, make sure you're alone, no one else overhears. Then, kill him, return to King's Landing, and tell your story."

Seeing Ser Courtnay fumbling his eyebrows in confusion and about to interject, Randyll Tarly turned to the King and continued his idea, more and more given shape by the second.

"The story we'll tell, Your Grace, is that Boros Blount has fallen in with the Sparrows. He screamed his allegiance and devotion to the High Sparrow, when he struck down the Queen for her unfaithfulness. Then he swore further allegiance as he lay dying by Ser Courtnay's sword."

"I don't understand," Rhaegar said. He was not the only one, but Randyll saw a gleam of realization in the eyes of Connington.

"By the Gods, Tarly, you're brilliant." This time, it was the Master of War who addressed Rhaegar on his behalf. "We can use the Queen's death to rid ourselves of the High Sparrow, purge all the maniacs following him from the capital, end this insanity once and for all."

"Will the people like it," Rhaegar asked.

Did he discard Lyanna in his mind so easily? Elia Martell, he already knew the answer, and could predict the former.

"Strike down a Queen and sworn brother," Courtnay asked indignantly. "What would you have us become, Tarly?"

Penrose was the key to the plan, Randyll knew. The man's loyalty may not lie entirely with them, but he knew his duty. He had to, there was no other choice.

"On behalf of your King,_ Lord Commander_. On behalf of the realm, and your sworn duty. Do you _understand_, Ser Courtnay?"

He did not allow the man to answer, because the answer should have been self evident. Randyll switched his attentions back to the broken dragon.

"To be honest, Your Grace, the Sparrows are demanding. Even the masses have only so much tolerance for...zealotry. Especially given power and affirmed by the Crown." He looked further to Connington. "With any luck...given time, we can blame some of the...incidents here on the Sparrows too, once they're already discredited, we'll put the nail in their coffin. It'll be disgrace to the Crown...but we're disgraced enough anyway, so we might as well make use of it, because a disgrace we _choose_ will be preferable to other disgraces we cannot control. Cutting our losses will be difficult, but...we'll feel lighter afterwards, no matter the pain."

Rhaegar turned to his Lord Commander without further hesitation. "Will you do it, Ser Penrose?"

It was the easiest order Randyll had ever heard given.

"I swore my first vows to Queen Sansa," Courtnay muttered unhappily. "But then I sworn may vows to King Rhaegar, before the Gods and the laws of all of Westeros. And by all the laws of Gods and men, the King is seated before the Queen. I will do my duty, Your Grace."

It was not the most eager acceptance, but Randyll felt he could actually trust it more, because the words were not spoken out of false sincerity.

"Good," the King's Hand replied. "It's a distasteful business, but it's for the good of the realm, we all know this."

All the heads in the room nodded in agreement. He had no problems birthing the idea, giving voice to it. But that didn't mean Randyll Tarly felt good about what he was about to wring forth. His memory shifted to one of his more reputed predecessors, Aerys's Hand Tywin, now languishing at the Wall. Was this how the old lion felt, Randyll wondered, when he'd drowned the Castameres, or ordered the slaughter of Elia Martell's children?

He could only hope that he would not meet the same fate. A man could only stand on the losing side of a war so many times, before falling himself.

* * *

**Sansa**

No one spoke to her. No one met her eyes. Her wheelhouse was a prison worse than her cell in the Red Keep. The nights Boros Blount stood guard over her, he more leered at her than anything else, if he didn't look her in the eye, he'd sure looked her over every other part of her body, and Sansa knew that he may do worse, if it weren't for the presence of Courtnay Penrose. Not that shielding her from further rape spared the traitor in her mind, she'd take what comfort given to her freely now, the time for gratitude to men whose treasons were well beyond the pale were long come and gone.

Because even Ser Courtnay refused to look at her, Sansa could guess at what was to come. Then one cold morning, before the soldiers accompanying them had risen, she noticed, they led her away from her tent. Not towards her wheelhouse, but into the woods, towards a small clearing and a stump freshly cut.

"Are you going to kill me now?"

It was a relief, if she were honest.

"It'll be better this way," Courtnay muttered, looking down at the ground.

"You'll be remembered as a traitor," Sansa proclaimed with all the authority she had as the _rightful_ Queen _Regnant_, her voice feeling refreshed after having not spoken for what seemed many fortnights now. "You'll be remembered as a Queenslayer, a villain, both of you, the basest of creatures ever born to a woman, do you hear me, do you hear your Queen?"

"Down, girl." A rough shove from behind her by Ser Boros, and Sansa fell to her knees, her eyes meeting the stump of the tree. It felt terrifying, and freeing, how easily she lay her head and neck against it.

_So this is how it ends. This is the last thing I will see, this stump, an__d these horrible men._

"May the Gods curse you both," she found the words in her heart, placing all the weight of her soul upon this cut tree. In her mind, the stump was no different from the Godswood of the home of her father, it held more power than any of these false gods of the Sparrows. The Godswood carried power, the First Men believed, the men of the North still believed. If she believed strongly enough, perhaps their powers would carry even in this accursed corner of the continent. "May every man and woman who betrayed me be cursed, may their houses be scourged and wiped from the land, may their castles be burned to the ground, may their bodies be reduced to ash, may no memory of their names ever carry forward..."

"Are ye finished, girl?"

She could not see Ser Boros behind her, but Sansa imagined that he was laughing as he mocked her. Closing her eyes, she rested, and prepared herself for what was to come. She'd done all that she could. She'd failed, but at least she'd given all that she had.

What did father think, when he was about to die? Or Robb? What would they think of her now, her heart filled with hatred and curses on her dying day?

What right did _they_ have to judge her, having been the ones to leave her in this predicament in the first place?

Despite her doubts, she wished fervently that it would be their faces, and her mother's, that she would see when it all came to an end. This thought gave her hope, for the first time in what felt a lifetime. Hearing the unsheathing of Boros's sword, a mirthful idea came into her mind, and Sansa couldn't help but giggle like a child, though she was about to die.

_This makes Arya the true and rightful Queen of Westeros. _

_Good luck to you, sister. May you fare better in this than I, I know you will._

The Queen awaited the final blow.

The final blow never came. Instead she heard Boros Blount scream out in pain. When she reopened her eyes, and looked back at him, Sansa saw the tip of one arrow pierced fully through his chest. Another one flew, and struck him in the neck.

"Riders," Courtnay called, eyes widened. Immediately he grabbed her, and carried her over his body, away from the sound of approaching hooves and feet.

"Cease your arrows," someone shouted, "he has the Queen!"

_He's not protecting me,_ she thought, _he's using me as a shield._

Her head hung upside down, rocking against the man's white cloak, Sansa squinted her eyes, and saw a single rider in the approaching crowd upon his horse, and carrying a banner emblazoned by a crack of lightning.

_The Lightning Lord!_

"We're under attack," Courtnay proclaimed, as he stumbled with her back into their camp. Dropping her roughly onto the ground, Sansa struggled to her feet, as the enemy...no, her saviors, caught up to them. She recognized Beric Dondarrion, and the young Dayne boy, who'd grown much since she'd last seen him, and a giant man, no woman, that she recognized as the Lady Brienne of Tarth.

"Hold your arrows," Beric ordered, "careful not to hurt the Queen!"

The battle commenced, as the dozen or so men commanded by Courtnay ran from their tents, barely dressed yet ready to meet their attackers, swarming around her and forming a shield between her person and her rescuers. At once the lightning lord was crossing swords with Ser Courtnay, while Sansa watched amazement as the woman fighter take on three enemies at once.

Men began falling around her, bloodied on the ground. Some were Beric's. Some were Rhaegar's. Soon she could not tell which was which. More fighters swarmed in from either direction, though Sansa thought that Beric's men outnumbered theirs.

_No. Not Beric's men. My men. They came here for me._

On one end of this rapidly developing battlefield she saw a sword aflame, as if by magic. In the same direction the woman knight continued cutting her way through the throng in her direction, nearly a dozen by now, Sansa thought. It was no longer Beric who engaged with Ser Courtnay, but the Dayne boy, and he was losing, Sansa realized. The boy was good, she'd watched him kill several men already, and he was quick to match and parry away each one of the older man's strikes, but Courtnay Penrose, a Lord Commander of Kingsguard, was proving ultimately stronger, and slowly advanced against the boy as his charge the Lord Beric fought off several attackers at once, unable to come to his squire's defense. Scrambling, Sansa ran to a dying man nearby, who still breathed even as he bled, and pried his muddy fingers off his sword.

Clutching the heavy, burdensome object with both her hands, she charged as fast as she could run at Ser Courtnay, straining every muscle in her body to lift the sword high and strong, and felt a sickening thud as the blade ran cleanly through the back of the neck of the Lord Commander, staining his white cloak with blood.

The boy, who'd just been fighting for his life, looked upon the scene in awe. Then he grabbed her by her arm, bloody sword and all, and led her away from the battle.

"Protect the Queen," Beric ordered as he continued to fight, concurring with his squire's flight. But the battle was already decided. She saw men running away, Courtnay's men, his death may have proven the last straw in their eyes. None of them paid she nor the Dayne boy any attention, determined as they were to save their own lives. With most of Rhaegar's men dispatched, she saw arrows flying forward, cutting down some of the deserters. Several of Beric's riders galloped by their side, cutting down the last of the stragglers. All this time Ned Dayne stood protectively in front of her by a tree, and they both watched in near reverential silence the deaths of the last of the traitors who'd accompanied her to what should have been her death.

_No. It's not over yet. There's plenty more time for me to die, however long I might live._

* * *

They spoke little at first. Beric and his men all knelt and pledged their fealty to her upon the blood stained battleground, but there'd been no time for much else. They gave her a horse, and though her body felt weak, she forced herself to ride southwards as fast as she could along with the small band of men, and two women with them.

Finally they made camp many hours after the sun had set.

"Are we going to Storm's End," she asked Beric Dondarrion, practically a stranger to her, yet the man who'd just saved her life. "Or the Marches?"

"Is it true," Beric asked instead, "that Ser Trystane is dead?"

_Why does he have to bring this up now?_

"Killed by Jon Connington," Sansa answered, the hatred nearly swallowing her voice fully, "by the orders of Rhaegar."

Beric nodded. "We'd heard whispers of much turmoil in King's Landing," he said. He did not apologize for her loss. Did he know of the affair, did all the realm know? Did she truly care?

"Rumors of white cloaks riding through the Kingswood," Brienne picked up where Beric left off, "it couldn't have been a coincidence. We trailed your group for several days, to make sure it was really you, Your Grace. And to call forth as many men as we could."

"We were almost too late," Beric remarked regrettably.

"You weren't," Sansa replied, absolving them completely. It was all that mattered.

"Dorne," Brienne said suddenly, answering her earlier question, and Beric nodded in agreement.

"I trust you, Ned. You're a man now."

"I serve you, my lord." The young man with the pale blond hair was warming his hands by the fire. He bowed his head reverentially. "And I serve my Queen."

"Still needed your Queen to save your life," the man with the red beard and the flaming sword said with a smile. His name was Thoros, she'd learned.

"I would've had him," Ned answered. If it was day, Sansa imagined that she would see his face reddened by a blush. "But I'm grateful to Her Grace all the same."

"I see our Queen is a warrior," Brienne said to her warmly. "I'm glad of it."

This time, it was she who felt like blushing. "I'm not much of a warrior, Lady Brienne. I saw you out there. You can fight as well as any man."

"Beric included," Ned japed. It was his turn to ridicule the older man. They all seemed to know each other, were familiar with each other. They were still all strangers to her, but Sansa allowed herself to feel comforted, to trust in them their loyalty, their good word.

_Loyalty._

It was a strange reminder, from a distant lifetime, when her mother still lived, and her grandfather, and Jon Arryn, and Tyrion Lannister whispered at her side, and she felt love and trust and comfort from everyone she knew.

_Including the Littlefinger._ That had been her doom.

She would trust them now, because she had no other choice. But she would do so carefully.

"Dorne will rally for you, Your Grace," Ned said. "I spoke to Prince Doran, he would've been ready to make war. We were preparing too."

"Not fast enough, apparently," Beric said, clearly disappointed. The man seemed the kind to be hard on himself.

Trystane had spoken to Ned, Sansa remembered. So they knew about _them_, because Beric had been in the tent too, according to Trystane. But they did not seem to care, they did not judge her at all.

"I'll have ravens sent to Sunspear," Beric said. He looked towards young Ned. "We're still a long way from Prince's Pass. Can you bring the Queen safely to Starfall?"

"I will, I swear it."

Beric nodded, though Sansa wasn't entirely sure the older man felt convinced. "Bring Thoros with you."

"What about you," she asked him, "and Lady Brienne?"

"We'll ride to the marches," Beric replied. "It's war now. We need to rally what bannermen we can in the Stormlands, Lady Brienne needs to get her father's men off the island. And...my wife and son remain in Blackhaven. The marches are unprotected. I'll need to send a small detachment to escort them to Starfall as soon as I can."

_He has his family too. He cares for his family...as he should. But there are limits to his loyalty. Beric Dondarrion is loyal to me, he saved my life, when no one else was there for me._

_But he'll also risk it, handing me to the protection of a boy years younger than myself, because of his own family._

"I trust him," Sansa smiled. Again, she did not have any other choice. "I'll watch his back."

They all laughed. None of their laughs were carefree. But at least she knew it.

* * *

**Young Ned**

"I spoke to your sister too."

The faint winter's sun watched over them in the sky. Beric and Brienne had departed earlier that morning. Now it fell upon his shoulders, and his alone, to protect the _fucking Queen of Westoros._ Whatever one may say about his life, it was certainly never boring.

"Do they treat her well," Sansa asked him, both of them riding slower in the afternoon after rushing wordlessly out from their camp at the first light. _Her Grace,_ Ned corrected himself. _Don't slip, she's only used to her servants, she doesn't know you're not used at all to being around royalty._

"She has her own wing of the palace," Ned answered, nodding, grateful that he did not have more bad news for her, on this account at least. "She's made some friends too, I think."

"Friends," the Queen replied skeptically, casting doubt upon his story.

"Prince Oberyn's bastard daughters," Ned explained hastily. "They're called the Sand Snakes, in Dorne. They love a good fight. So does the Princess...I've heard."

A smile grew upon the Queen's face. It was a comforting sight, and it reassured him that he may actually succeed in his duties.

"Leave it to Arya..."

"I told your sister you had friends neither of you knew of," Ned continued, when her words trailed off. He had no brothers or sisters, barely memories of his own parents. Not for the first time did Ned wonder what it must be like, to know a sister beloved, then forcibly separated from her. To have any family at all, beside his aunt. "That not everyone in the realm has forgotten who their true Queen is. I couldn't tell her about Prince Trystane..."

This time it was he who found himself lacking for words. They'd loved each other, that he'd known. To what extent...well, it was probably extensive, considering the whispers of the slaughter in King's Landing. Two Martell whitecloaks dead with no explanation, along with the King's Master of Whispers. There were darker whispers too, about the two surviving sons of King Eddard. And even fouler ones. Ned dared not to question her on any such matters.

"I loved him," Sansa answered solemnly, eyes cast in the distance. "He died for me."

"I'm sorry, Your Grace."

They rode in silence for some time after.

"These woods go on forever," the Queen said thoughtfully.

"I know them like the back of my hands," Ned said, careful not to sound like he was boasting. "We were chasing the bandits setting fire to them, terrorizing the villagers and townsfolk."

On Rhaegar's behalf, Beric believed. It seemed there was nothing he could speak of which did not touch upon one way or another how Rhaegar Targaryen had wronged the Queen.

"We should send another raven to Sunspear tonight," she decided later. The Queen carried not a sword, but her word was still the law, his law. "Summon Prince Doran to Starfall, so we may discuss our new alliance, and this upcoming war, together. Arya is to accompany them, obviously, as a gesture of his good will. Ask him to bring his daughter as well. I would like to meet my nephew."

"Nephew," Ned asked, startled. There'd been whispers, when he'd ridden through Dorne, that Arianna Martell had borne a bastard child. Could it be?

"I'll explain later," the Queen replied cryptically, yet answering his unasked question at the same time.

* * *

A dim fire illuminated his tent, as his fingers turned the page of the tome. Then she'd entered, without asking permission, or even assuring that he was decent. Which he was, but the Queen didn't know that.

"Your Grace," he rose hurriedly, sitting upwards and slinging his legs across the side of the bed.

"You can call me Sansa," the Queen replied, as she took a seat in the cot next to him. "We're going to have to ride together for a long time, you might as well call me by my name."

"Sansa," Ned tested on his lips.

Her eyes glanced down into his lap, where his book lay. "What are you reading?"

"A book, Your Grace." _Stupid. Gods, what a stupid answer._ Ned explained further, reading aloud the title._ "The Marches and Campaigns of the Dance of Dragons."_

Sansa laughed. It was a pleasant, musical sound.

"Sounds scintillating."

"It is," he replied defensively. "There's several chapters about the Lord Cregan, you know. Your ancestor."

"I recall," the Queen whispered, her pale blue eyes again a world away. "Funny thing, isn't it, a Stark marching to the aid of a Targaryen."

"Now a Dondarrion, a Tarth, a Dayne, and a damned drunken Myrish priest march on behalf of a Stark Queen."

He almost said Martell too, but decided against it. Gods, it seemed any subject he dared tread around her threatened to touch against her traumas. Her hands beckoned towards him, and he handed her the book. The Queen flipped casually through the pages, though Ned did not think she was actually reading them.

"You'll have to tell them to stop calling you Ned," she suddenly said, placing the book aside, away from him.

"I'm sorry?"

"I'm won't have my newest lover sharing the same name as my father."

He thought it a joke at first, before he looked into her eyes, and saw that strangely enough, she was serious.

"Do you not want it," she questioned him as if he were dumb, because he had indeed been struck dumb, and failed to fathom any possible reply to her words.

"I...I do?"

"Good," the Queen replied. Rising, she began undoing the straps of her gown. "You can take your clothes off too, you know."

"Oh," Ned said, his every word a clumsy stumble. "Of course." Haphazardly, he worked at loosening his shirt, all the while unable to avert his eyes from the Queen's body. Even in the dim light, he could see faint bruises marking several spots upon her skin. Her eye had been swollen the day they saved her, and Ned wondered just how cruel was Rhaegar, and the men who'd abused the rightful and usurped Queen in the name of the dragon.

"You don't have to do this," he said, even though she stood entirely naked before him now, and he was nearly so, his pants cramped by his ankles. He still crouched his hands over his lap, as if merely showing himself still constituted treason.

The Queen looked away shyly. "Do I not please you, my lord?" There seemed to be disappointment in her voice. Could he not do anything right, when it came to protecting a damned Queen?

"No, it's not that," he said with much urgency. "You're beautiful...clearly. But..."

"But what?"

Even though she was naked, she remained entirely frightening to him. He'd never even seen Talla so exposed to him like this.

"You don't have to do this for me," Ned tried, not exactly sure how wanted to explain it to her. "Don't feel like you...owe me...any...gratitude. For, um, finding you, and...saving you, I guess."

The Queen shook her head, and he thought he saw a faint smirk upon her face.

"That's not why I'm doing this," Sansa said, her feet creeping ever closer to him. "I don't do this for you, I'm doing this for _me_."

"Oh," was all Ned could think to say in response. Still backing away instinctively at her approach, he found himself lying his atop cot, cornered really, his embarrassment open and revealed for the Queen to see.

_She really is beautiful._

And dangerous too, he remembered, though with a smile. His heart felt lighter with that thought.

"You saved my life too," he said, surprisingly feeling more at ease as she climbed atop of him, his body shivering at the touch of her skin upon his own. The book fell against the ground. "Don't think I'm the one doing this out of gratitude to you, either."

"Edric?" She hung over him, frozen, and he thought his stupidity had been enough to change her mind. Was that what he wanted? Or was it not?

"Your Grace?" He could help but call her that, when he replied, especially when she addressed him so formally.

"Do try to shut up when the Queen is fucking you."


	27. Starfall

**Edric**

"You've never bathed in a spring before?"

"No," he heard the Queen reply from behind his back, accompanied by the sound of her hands lapping against the water. "They have hot springs near my uncle's keep in Winterfell, but mother wouldn't let me go in. Says it wasn't proper for a princess, that she didn't want...well..."

"She didn't anyone want to see you naked?"

"No," came her voice. "Not in the Red Fork when we went to Riverrun either."

He'd seen see plenty of the Queen these recent days, yet Ned still didn't feel right peeking at her whilst she bathed in what was, for the moment, her private bath.

"You should come in," she taunted at him, ever throwing temptation in his face. "The water does feel good. It's warmer, probably, than where you're standing now."

"Your Grace," Edric coughed, "with all respect, that's kind of the point of a hot spring, is the hot water. It'll be hot, not cold, did they not teach you that in the Red Keep?"

"Treason! Treason!" There came a furious splash of water, cool droplets hit at his neck, and Ned dared to crane his head backwards, where the Queen reclined, most of her body submerged below the bubbling and translucent waters, the rays of the sun shining upon her as if she sat inside a crown of gold.

"Take my head then," Ned japed, "there'd be no one to guard ya!"

That wasn't exactly true. Ahead of him, on the other side of the trees by the boundary of the camp, stood about twenty bannermen whose sole purpose in life, at this moment, was preventing any straggler from intruding upon the Queen whilst she bathed.

"No one to dry you either! Do you even know how to dry yourself, Your Grace? Or has someone always dressed and dried Her Grace all her life?"

"I did." Suddenly her voice did not sound so lighthearted anymore. "Until they took Jeyne away."

She would be sad now for the rest of the day, Edric figured. He liked it when she smiled, when she laughed at him, when she returned his jokes and teasings with her own barbed words. Edric turned apologetically, and watched her emerge out the spring, her desire for its soothing waters waned. Quickly he grabbed the cloths, and covered up her body though no one would dare look or intrude upon them in his small corner of the Red Mountains, beside a small pass which ran above from Prince's Pass and led back down to the Torentine and Starfall. These springs he'd known since he bathed here as a child, and Ned never failed to enjoy this small delight each time he rode between his family's castle and the Stormlands.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, carefully wiping dry her body, then leaving her still covered with the linens, the Queen's makeshift handmaiden for this afternoon ran to grab her garments and dress lying upon a bare rock. "I didn't mean to bring you bad memories."

"It's fine," Sansa replied, though he could tell her smile seemed somewhat forced. "I doubt you'd be able to say anything at all to me, without bringing me bad memories."

The Queen finished dressing herself in silence, and they walked back into the camp, Edric watching carefully over her as if he were one of her whitecloaks.

_Not a good example, Ned, considering what'd happened to the last whitecloak who'd been her lover._

By the time they'd returned under the gaze of his men, her gait was entirely calm and regal, that of a woman born to rule. Most of the men remained expressionless, few dared to exchange to him any winks or knowing looks aside from Thoros.

"I killed Meryn Trant and the Spider," she said suddenly, out of nowhere, while they rode the last stretches of the small, shrubby path leading up the mountain. Far ahead rode Thoros, on the lookout for any attackers about. That they'd killed all of her captors had bought them time, and though whispers were bound to grow as the Queen and the Lord of Starfall rode through the countryside with a small army, the further they distanced themselves from the capital, the less supporters Rhaegar had. His own banners had met them in the middle of Prince's Pass, their small procession strong enough were to repel most attacks, however unlikely.

"You did?" Edric purposefully avoided asking her any questions pertaining to the horrors she'd suffered in the Red Keep. He'd been about to remark to her now how impressive that was, for her to have successfully killed two whitecloaks, when he saw in her expression that her words had not been meant for boasting.

"Afterwards," she continued. "I lay naked in a pool of their blood, while they hit me, kicked me, and bound me." Though her face was solemn, morose, there did not appear to be sadness in her eyes. "I didn't want to die in the woods, Edric, not where you'd found me. But I did want to die there, in the Keep, let them kill me in the castle I was born and raised in. I swore with all my soul that I'd will myself to stay, to remain a ghost, a phantom, and torment them until I'd driven them beyond madness, each and every one of them."

"I'd say I wished that could have happened, because that's what you wanted then," Edric replied uncomfortably, leading his chin up to search for Thoros's horse further up the bend along the hill. "But I'm glad it didn't happen, I'm glad you're here."

"Me too," Sansa replied, and Edric thought her eyes revealed just the smallest, faintest shadow of the sweet girl he'd met for all but half a minute so many years ago, after the night he'd killed his first man.

"How did it feel," he couldn't help but ask, "when you killed them?"

The Queen chuckled, not a happy one. Then Edric watched as she looked away in thought, as if she'd never pondered this question until he'd asked her now.

"I didn't feel anything, I don't think," Sansa finally replied, looking him straight in the eye. "Not in the Keep, not with Penrose. The only thing I thought was that I couldn't miss, that I just _had_ to hit them where I wanted to hit them, that I had no other choice. Afterward, I just felt relief, that I hadn't missed. And then I'd think again and again, repeatedly...what if I had missed, what if something'd gone wrong, if I'd struck upon Courtnay's armor instead of his neck, or had I only sliced him lightly, and he turned his sword back at me..."

The Queen's voice drew to a standstill, and Edric knew not to bother her further.

"Is that what it's like, to be a soldier?"

"For some," Ned answered, trying his best to think of an appropriate answer for her, as if it was his duty. "Everyone's different about it, I think."

"What about for you?"

_Good question._

"I don't know," Ned said honestly. "I don't feel anything anymore, really. I don't cry over the men I've killed, or lose sleep. But...next time, when the next battle comes, and I see Rhaegar's men, and know the awful things they did to you..." He shook his head. "Some men _love_ the killing, I think, like a good wine, or eating a fat and plump chicken roasted, or...like, it's like spending the night with a beautiful woman..."

He did not fail to notice her brief but visible blush.

"Beric doesn't like it," Edric continued, "I don't think. He hates it, but he does it anyway. Thoros too, that's why he drinks so much afterwards."

"You don't like it, but you don't hate it," the Queen summarized succinctly what he'd been trying to tell her.

"I just do it." Quickly, he added, "it doesn't mean I'm any less dedicated to fight for you, Your Grace. My sword is yours, I'll fight for you until my dying day, and better than some prick who loves getting blood on his sword, and doesn't care whose blood it is, or whom he sheds it for. Those men fight for themselves, no one else. I'll fight your enemies, but it's _you_ I fight for, that I'd truly fight for."

She nodded, accepting his words, Ned thought, without saying anything more to him in return.

Except hadn't been entirely truthful to her, had he? There'd been that night, after he'd left Talla in Highgarden, that he'd wanted to slice the neck of a common butcher whose only crime had been to utter an unkind word in his direction. But he hadn't, and he was thankful for it, so ought that not count for something?

Then there'd been his liege lord. He'd felt the temptation then, standing before Prince Doran, the strange urge to strike out at a man because he simply did not like him, the way he looked, the way he sneered. Would he have, were there no consequences to be had? Was it treason even, to kill a traitor he'd nevertheless sworn vows of fealty to? And now whom they were about to seek as their newest and most powerful ally, whom he was soon to have as a guest in his own home...all Edric could predict was that the coming nights would trying in ways he'd never experienced before.

* * *

"What do you think of Doran Martell?"

She'd slept for what seemed nearly a whole day upon their immediate arrival at Starfall, whilst he arranged the castle, situating the small army which had accompanied them, and preparing for more to come. Then she'd eaten, presumably the first good meal the Queen had enjoyed since departing the Red Keep, or even before that, although Edric regretted that his kitchens did not have any lemons ready to prepare the kind of cakes she asked him for. It wasn't their nights together that Ned savored the most, though each was more excruciatingly enjoyable than the last...but the long, lingering mornings after, where they could just lie in his bed together, both of them happy to do nothing more than enjoying the touch of their skin against each other.

"What do I think of him?"

"You've met the man, haven't you," she asked him with a smile, though he sensed an impatience in her voice. Her fingers ran absentmindedly across his chest, while one knee of hers lay settled between his legs, brushing against him with purpose. Spent and exhausted as he was, Ned did not think that the Queen was unaware of her continued effect on him.

"Only once," Edric replied distastefully.

"You didn't like him?"

So he hadn't been able to hide his feelings that well. He'd need to work better at it, once the Martells arrived in the afternoon.

"He seems a very careful...crafty man. He's clever, of course he is...but, I think he thinks himself to be the cleverest man in all the known world. When he spoke to me...it felt like he didn't believe me worthy of his great mind at all, that I didn't deserve his audience, except out of necessity...that he was doing the greatest favor in the world to me by seeing me."

He'd woken that morning with Sansa's body draped atop of him. Edric liked to watch her sleeping peacefully in those first glimpses of the dawn, because the nights preceding it were anything but peaceful. Whatever they did together, it certainly wasn't making love, not like he'd always imagined how it would be with Talla. She slapped him, sometimes hit him with her bare fists, as if he were the awful Rhaegar she'd just escaped. She'd bite him, she grabbed at his hair, and ever since they moved to his castle, no longer surrounded by soldiers with open ears, she'd screamed as if he were attacking her, hurting her, though Sansa assured him afterwards that he hadn't been.

Then there were the times she cried while he was still inside her, yet whispered at him, ordering him to continue. Often afterwards, both of their minds and bodies drained, Edric held her while she continued weeping, until her mind passed mercifully into slumber. There were the nightmares too, when she'd scream and claw at him in the middle of the night, her words unintelligible. But the mornings were always tranquil, betraying no signs of the preceding night, leaving him with renewed determination every time he rose to do whatever he could to win the war for her, lover or not.

"You hadn't a chance to meet Arianne though?"

"I had not." He'd wondered then, half expecting Doran to propose the girl to be his bride, to shore up his support in Dorne. Now, hearing of her bastard child, it all made sense, but Edric did not expect that Doran would arrive without proposals this time, however. "But I did meet Prince Trystane's brother."

"Trystane says he's not much of a warrior," Sansa said thoughtfully. "Not clever like their father either."

Did she still think of her departed lover, when they made love, or whatever it was they did at nights, and sometimes in the morning? Theirs had truly been love, a love the likes of Florian and Jonquil, and Edric could not help but feel that, compared to his predecessor in the Queen's affections, he was no more or less an object to be used for the Queen's pleasure. Not that he had any complaints, not by far. Even if he did not receive the same pleasure in return, or better, it was his duty to give to the Queen whatever she demanded of him. And even as an object, he'd still be the most envied man in all Seven Kingdoms were it known widely, and though they'd known each other for the briefest time, Ned already found it difficult to remember his life before Sansa Stark had entered it.

"He's a good man though," Ned recalled of the bland Prince, "a decent one."

"You liked him," Sansa asked accusingly, as if he'd committed a crime.

"Not really," Edric answered honestly. "I didn't dislike him either. He was just kind of, well...there."

"You won't just be there," Sansa said to him with a tantalizing grin, perhaps reading through his fears, "when we win."

Edric did not think about winning. War was fought anticipating only the next minute, the next hour, the next day...not of its end. But never the less he rubbed her back confidently, to assure her that he felt just as strongly as she.

"Have you ever thought how it'll feel," she continued, "to hear others call of you a Prince."

"That's not what I want," Ned replied shyly.

"What is it you want then?" Her lips kissed him along his right breast as she spoke.

_War. Victory. Dawn. To be remembered the same way as Arthur Dayne. To, unlike Ser Arthur, serve a worthy Queen, worthy of his family's ancestral sword._

"You," he answered with one simple decree.

* * *

The Martell ship arrived just after midday. Areo Hotah pushed the Prince ashore. A short but proud and stunning woman walked beside him, leading by her hand a small child with dark red hair. Nor did they fail to notice that Prince Quentyn trailed them by several steps, and behind him, Edric recognized the Queen's sister amidst an ending sea of Sand Snakes.

They met, and bowed and exchanged greetings. The Queen and the Prince eyed each other carefully, and Edric noticed that Doran Martell paid him no need. Nor did Sansa, while she remained pleasant to the older man, it was towards the rear of the procession that her eyes fervently glanced towards, except etiquette prevented the Queen from running and embracing her long lost sister like, well...long lost sisters. Arianne she remained circumspect with, though Sansa bent down in delight to meet her only nephew in this world. Quentyn she gave barely any attention to, Edric saw with some satisfaction, and he wondered if it was because of his dismissal of the man in bed that morning.

Finally, it came time. They embraced fervently, but briefly, though it comforted Edric that Sansa would have all the time she would wish with Arya once the formalities were over, and they were alone in his castle.

"Bran and Rickon," Arya asked, her eyes trembling and fearful.

Biting her lips, Sansa shook her head only once, enough to convey the dreadful news. "I'm sorry Arya."

This was news to him. The Queen had not spoken a word of her brothers through the entire ride.

"There was a child too. A daughter."

"Oh Sansa." But again they did not dare to embrace, truly embrace each other before so many prying eyes, Edric's included.

"We'll avenge them," the small Princess swore. It seemed she'd suspected so long that she already knew too. Having met them separately, now seeing them side by side, Edric thought he feared the younger one more, though it was through the slimmest of margins.

"And my son Trystane," Doran reminded her, as if Sansa were crass enough to have forgotten him.

"I will build statues of Trystane across all seven kingdoms," Sansa swore through gritted teeth. "I will name cities after him, he will be remembered, this I promise you."

Did it hurt, hearing of her continued dedication to her truest of loves? It did, but Edric did not begrudge her for it. Both of them had loved others before their paths had collided in the Kingswood.

"I pray you will, Your Grace," Doran answered. He looked towards Ned, carefully assessing him as if meeting him anew, before turning his attentions back to the Queen. "This is my son Quentyn. He is not his brother, but...I believe you will find in him an noble Prince of Dorne befitting of his title."

_Already? Gods, the man truly has no heart._

"A pleasure," Sansa said, feigning politeness and allowing the ugly, stumpy prince to kiss at her hand.

"Come, my good Princes and Princesses," Edric spoke for the first time, gesturing them towards the gates of Starfall. "I know far more about war than hosting. I'm afraid our feast tonight will be nothing like the ones you enjoy in Sunspear or the Water Gardens, but I look forward to the opportunity to learn of wine and dance from the very best."

The Queen decided to remain closer to the rear of the train, beside her sister. Edric would wish to accompany them, but for the sake of pretense, he had to walk at the head of their procession aside the Prince, careful to maintain the pace of his walking with Hotah's as the lumbering beast of the man slowly pushed his Prince up the incline.

"These are your new friends," he heard Sansa asking the small Princess.

"They are," Arya answered eagerly. "May I introduce Lady Ellaria, Nymeros, Tyene, Sarella, Obara..."

How the Princess kept straight all their names, Ned knew not, though it made sense, considering the Sand Snakes had been practically her only company over the last two years.

"The Sands number thousands in Dorne," he heard Oberyn's former lover telling the Queen. "We are all sisters, and here we are sworn swords to our Prince, Oberyn's daughters and I. Regardless of birth...no name or useless vows need remind us where our truest loyalties lie."

Doran laughed, and craned his head back at the Queen. "You will learn much of Dorne, Your Grace. I look forward to it. I have a feeling that my Sand Snakes alone will be able to win you back Seven Kingdoms, long before your Northmen even reach Moat Cailin..."

* * *

**Daenerys**

_"My good lords of Westeros, I mean to tell the truth, and only that. My heart has hid my guilt for so long now. Though I've never admitted to a man before, it does not mean that I do not feel heavily the burdens of my crimes._

_I am a traitor. I betrayed first my King, who gave me justice for the massacre of King's Landing, and then my Queen, who was a child and did nothing to wrong me. I committed such treasons out of lust for power. I wanted a Martell sitting upon an Iron Throne. I sold out first my own daughter, bidding her to give her body to Robb Stark, whom she did in fact bear true affections for. I plied the Prince with wine, until he gave in. _

_I expected a crown for a grandchild in return, but when Robb Stark did not return Arianne's affections, I was driven mad with rage. I sent word to Rhaegar, and begged him for an alliance sealed through the union between our houses, despite the fact that my daughter had given birth by then to the bastard son of Prince Robb. _

_The Prince did not know of this when he announced his betrothal to Margaery Tyrell, he never knew of it when he died on Pyke at the age of ten and six. _

_Once the agreement was sealed, Rhaegar's secret messengers, men who introduced themselves to me as Sparrows, confided in me Rhaegar's true and ill intent, to destroy the Faith of the Seven, and replace it with the High Sparrow and his acolytes, who serve with all dedication the false god of fire R'hilor, a horrible religion which condones the ritualistic burning of its followers whilst they still live and breath. They told me of their intentions towards the Great Sept of Baelor; horrified as I was, I told no one, because I'd decided that my revenge outweighed the costs Rhaegar would inflict upon the realm, or upon my soul._

_Nor ought it matter. It was my intention for Arianne to plot for Rhaegar's demise once they sat both upon the Throne, then crown her own child as a King or Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, under the name of House Martell._

_So much betrayal I'd plotted, it should not have surprised me when I was then betrayed in turn by Rhaegar. Yet I'd still been surprised._

_I've had many years to think now, the icy fingers of remorse gripped firm, digging deeper into my shoulders with every passing night. My beloved daughter despises her father, and cannot stand the sight of him. She is a broken shell of herself since her heartbreak, since she'd learned the truth of how callously I'd used her. My eldest son Quentyn questions his father, his family, the meaning of his legacy and his name. But it is the news of my youngest son Trystane, my most beloved, whom I'd lost when I'd carelessly sent him years ago to fight in Rhaegar's war, which has truly broken me._

_This evening, I looked into the eyes of a woman I'd betrayed, who yet loved my youngest son. I can bear this farce of a life no longer. I can only make amends with the last weapon I have left in my arsenal: the truth. May all the lords and all the realm know of it. May my daughter see it in her heart to forgive me after I'm gone, may my death give her the strength she needs to rule, may she restore honor and glory to the great name I've sullied._

_Doran Nymeros of the House Martell; Prince of Dorne & Lord of Sunspear."_

"It's all true then," Lancel's eyes widened, as she finished reading the letter bearing the seal of the ruling Prince of Dorne. "Everything you've said about your brother, and the Sparrows..."

"Of course I told you the truth," Daenerys insisted, hurt that her husband could ever believe otherwise. "It was in not telling you that I was untrue to you in the beginning, because...I...I wasn't sure if I could really trust in you yet. But I trust you now, dear Lancel, my husband, the father of my child."

"You poor girl," Lancel's aunt Genna whispered in horror, and Daenerys thought she was about to cry. "The horrors you must have seen, being forced to live with that...man...all your life."

"He raised me," Daenerys said, her voice sounding like a death rattle. When she spoke, she thought of that night when they'd finally battered through the doors to Lewyn's chambers, and she saw with her eyes the body of the man she loved, in whatever way she loved him, hanging suspended from his ceiling, eyes dead and yet wide open, locked in an eternal horror. "The things he subjected my innocents eyes to...those, awful...rituals, I don't think I can ever forget..."

"And you said you saw the High Sparrow there in Rhaegar's court," Roland Crakehall asked nervously, sitting across the table from her, "preaching the teachings of this Lord of Light?"

Roland Crakehall was one of the more powerful lords in the Westerlands. He was a strong man, not particularly bright, Daenerys did not think, but there was an innate sense of a soldier's honor guiding his heart, so far as she could guess.

"They...they...they lay with each other," Daenerys said, her word gasping and catching in her throat, as if she had to force them out one by one, "he and his Sparrows and the Priestesses in that awful temple in Volantis. Then they laid my brother on the table, and they all lay together, while...the...the, the children, children from newborn babes to boys gelded and slave girls...they screamed as the priests fed them into the fire burning at the hearth, while my brothers and the Sparrows and priestesses all did...carnal knowledge with each other."

Was it too much? It was probably too much. But by the Gods, it was _fun_, it would be fun, were her ability to enjoy telling such ridiculous stories not clouded by her hatred of her brothers.

"Then," her teeth began to chatter, and her body rocked unevenly, shaking fearfully back and forth. "I'd been dreading it all my life, I think. They brought me into the room they perform...the ceremonies in. And the High Sparrow put his cold hands on my body, and he started taking off my dress, and, I...I looked at Rhaegar and Viserys, and..."

She couldn't go on. She cried, and remembered Lewyn hanging, and remembered the man plunging his sword through the heart of a newborn babe, and the sad eyes of the prisoner her brother kept as his wife.

"Oh, you poor girl," Lady Genna said, taking her in her full arms as Daenerys shook and bawled against her shoulder, while Lancel stared at them dumbly and Roland Crakehall looked uneasily and suspiciously at the fire gracing their hearth in Casterly Rock. "Oh, you poor, poor girl."

It'd been no secret that she hadn't possessed her maidenhead the night she first shared her marriage bed with Lancel. The story they'd told her to tell was that she must've lost it riding and exploring the hills of the Summer Isles with her serving girls, who accompanied her wherever they went. Daenerys doubted any one of them believed the story except Lancel, but it did not matter then, a Targaryen Princess is a Targaryen Princess. Besides, Lancel's reputation had been damaged as well, what with all the not so sordid details of his so called affair with Sansa Stark trailing his name like a cloud of dust.

"We have to tell my father," Lancel exclaimed, biting at his nails nervously. He hadn't believed her at first, confining her to her rooms after she'd only had the chance to tell her story, more sordid with each telling than the last, to only a few Westerland lords. But then came the letter bearing the seal and signature of Doran Martell.

_So the Queen somehow made her away out of the capital. Good for Sansa. Not so good for my brothers._

"I love Kevan," Genna said sincerely, as Daenerys withdrew her head from the woman's bosom. "He's a decent man, a faithful one. I can't imagine he can support this infernal order, if he truly knows their motives."

"He doesn't," Daenerys affirmed. They weren't idiots, aside from Lancel anyway, and she knew that their tolerance for her incredulous tales could only be strained so far. "No one really knows, I don't even think Lord Tarly knows. In the Keep...only my brothers, the Sparrows, and the Spider."

"I've a feeling he'll know pretty damned soon," Roland Crakehall muttered. "Every damned man, woman, and child will know, from the Arbor to the Wall. Shame Lord Tywin's stuck there, he'd be able to talk some sense into Lord Kevan."

_Lord Tywin murdered Elia and her children._

But Daenerys controlled her rage, it would not be helpful. And besides, hadn't it been Rhaegar himself who'd sold her as a common whore to Tywin Lannister's kin?

"I met Lord Tyrion once," Daenerys said delicately. "He...he had kind eyes. And Sansa always spoke well of him."

"The poor girl," Roland continued muttering. "If the Queen has to endure what you did, princess..."

"Hush Roland," Genna whispered, "let's not speak of such things." The older woman looked sympathetically at Daenerys. "Tyrion's a good man, a clever one. He's very much worthy of Tywin's name...oh, my brother will kill me if he hears me say such things, both of them...but it's the truth. What happened...is...a shame. No family's perfect, least of all ours..."

"We have to get father back to Casterly Rock," Lancel continued, seemingly having fallen out of the sway of the Sparrows overnight.

"By word or by force," Roland muttered, "maybe I can ride to the capital, talk some reason into the man."

Kevan Lannister could not be allowed to return alive to the Westerlands, that much was obvious. How? Daenerys was not sure yet. Maybe she could quietly inquire into Daario's whereabouts.

"But if you fail, they'll have you burned like Lord Baelish," Daenerys countered. He seemed a useful man to have close by. She turned again to Genna. "I know Lord Tywin cannot interfere with the politics of the realm. But surely he can send just one letter to his brother from Castle Black, begging him to see reason?"

"Rhaegar would consider it treason," Roland added thoughtfully. "But all the North stands between Rhaegar and Castle Black, doesn't it?"

"I don't expect the Starks to be so forgiving," Genna said, having her own doubts about the idea. "I doubt my brother Tywin's forgiven anyone either, for the matter. But there are greater threats at hand...of enemies shared, we have no shortage of them...perhaps it's time we sent some ravens to Winterfell."

* * *

**Sansa**

_"It is my regret to inform the realm of the tragedies which has befallen in Starfall, the seat of House Dayne. Prince Doran Martell betrayed my father, my family, yet I loved his son, we could share in at least that, before he died. We spoke of the man we both loved, in those last days, and I found in my heart some forgiveness for his remorseful soul, though I was not ready to grant it fully to him yet._

_The words I write above are true, about Prince Trystane, a good man and knight whose life was cut too short. Have I been true to every tenet laid down in the Seven Pointed Star? I have not. In truth, after all the sins the vile usurper and his band of heretical worshipers of R'hilor inflicted upon me, perhaps the truth is that I'd forgotten what is and what isn't sin._

_I am your Queen and I have sinned. Other men who sat upon my throne have too. I can't say whether men like Maegor or Aegon IV or Aerys II prayed, I can only testify that I pray to the Mother nightly for forgiveness. _

_Yet the one sin I am innocent of is that of laying with a man outside my marriage, because in truth, I was never married. The union between the usurper Rhaegar and I was conducted by the High Sparrow, who is a heretic, who not only does not keep to the Faith of the Seven, the Faith of the Andals, but seeks to destroy it with his every breath. The marriage was forced upon me through an act of treason. If treason is illegal, then how can any actions conducted in its name hereafter be deemed lawful and legitimate in the eyes of Gods and men? When the Blackfyre usurpers denied the Crown and named their own Hands, and Small Councils, and Lord Paramounts, were their pronouncements regarded with any seriousness by those true to the Crown?_

_The saddest truth I bear is that my son, forced into me by the usurper, is a bastard. But freed from the shackles of usurpers and heretics, though I regret that he lies beyond my protection, I, Sansa I Stark, sole and rightful Queen Regnant of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, proclaim my son legitimized as Baelor of House Stark. By the same proclamation written in this letter you receive now, I also legitimize Prince Joffrey of House Martell, son of Prince Robb, my brother, and the late Princess Arianne._

_I spare a few words now to tell of her sad story, her grief at both her father's crimes, yet also his unspeakable and irreversible final act. She took poison. The maesters assure me it was painless, and I believe them. They told me her last words concerned her beloved son, that he may be cared for after she passed. May the Gods forgive her gentle soul and bless her in the Heavens, may the fair Princess finally find peace and happiness where she did not in this life._

_With the abdication of Prince Quentyn, a child now reigns sovereign over Dorne. Until Prince Joffrey comes of age, I proclaim as his Regents Lord Edric Dayne of Starfall, and the Lady Ellaria Sand, who was beloved to the late Prince Oberyn. _

_In the name of the Crown, the Throne, in the name of the Seven, I call forth that all Seven Kingdoms shall rise against the usurper Rhaegar and his band of traitors and fanatics, who seek to destroy what little remains of the Faith in this realm. _

_Henceforth, each and every Sparrow is to be considered the most dangerous of outlaws. By the orders of the Queen, it is the duty of every man, woman, and child to wipe this infernal order off our sacred soil. Given the urgency of the matter and the weights of their crimes, no trials need be afforded those in their order, nor any who support or harbor them._

_I call for all the realm to pray for the safety of my son and your Prince, Baelor of House Stark, an innocent child held captive by the usurper. I call for all the realm to pray for the safety of Lady Cersei Lannister, the dutiful and faithful wife of Lord Benjen Stark of Winterfell; and her sweet and beloved children, Myrcella Stark, Tommen Stark, & Myrcella Stark, all held captive by the usurper's arch-heretic._

_These are the words, pronouncements, & orders of Sansa I Stark, Queen Regnant who was anointed by the New Gods and the Old. So as she commands you, so do all the true Gods, New & Old."_

"Queen Sansa?"

"Yes, my dear."

Dropping her quill, Sansa bent to her side and took the child's hands in hers. Though undoubtedly Dornish in color, Joffrey had Robb's eyes, Robb's hair, this precious boy the last she had of her brother.

"Mother's really gone, isn't she?"

Sansa nodded, hugging the boy, lifting him so he sat upon her legs. Joffrey was intelligent for his age. Of course he'd be, he had good blood in him. "I'm sorry child. Your mother loved you dearly, she told me that. But...there are some things...we can't help ourselves sometimes, even if we want to."

Her wrists ached, but there remained more letters to write, to send to all through the realm. Doran Martell's wrists had ached too, but she didn't care about that. He deserved all the pain she inflicted upon him, and would inflict upon him after all his letters were written and sent. Doran wrote under the threat of a sword, not pressed against his own neck, but against those of his two surviving children. So Sansa had delighted in the betrayal in his eyes the past night, when she'd told him of his daughter Arianne's decision to take poison, before Arya had ran her Needle through the man's stomach in the deepest bowels of Edric's castle.

"She doesn't mean to leave you," Sansa continued, cradling the boy's head against her shoulder. "She must miss you dearly, wherever she is. She'd want you to be good, to be strong, to learn to grow wise, for her."

"I will," Joffrey promised sadly, innocently. "I promise."

It broke her heart to see Robb's son have to comprehend such grief at his young age. But she couldn't help it, this was war.

The poison part had been at least the truth, though Arya told her the girl had fought and screamed while the woman Obara pried open her mouth to pour the liquid down her throat. Arya's new friends had been disappointed it hadn't been worse for Arianne, but Ellaria had not cared, so long as Doran suffered. And while Sansa did blame Arianne for her part in the plots which ended up killing Robb along with their father, she could sympathize too that the girl, though she was a woman grown and many years older than her and Robb at the time, Arianne Martell ultimately served only as her father's tool, believe it herself she may or may not. If she swore to remain quiet and disappear, Sansa would have let her live. Because such naive thoughts could not be trusted, could never be trusted ever again, Arianne Martell had to die, though she'd allow the woman the mercy of the gentlest death possible.

"Ready," Arya asked from the doorway.

There was the matter of Arianne's brother as well, to be resolved shortly. Joffrey ran to his other aunt, whom he'd known for several years now and together, they stepped carefully down the stairways of the castle, each holding one of Joffrey's hands as the boy walked wedged between his two aunts. Leaving him with one of the younger Sand girls, they continued their descent into the dungeons.

Edric had already arrived and stood nervously nearby the cell door. Inside were Ellaria and the three eldest Sand Snakes, who stood around the young man cowered pitifully upon the ground, as if about to begin some dreadful ritual. Quentyn Martell was many years older than her, Sansa knew, yet his sheer fright made him look younger than herself, or even Arya or Edric.

"Please...please, Your Grace," he begged the moment he saw her approach. "I...promise, I won't say a word, I'll run away, I'll take a ship to Essos."

"That's exactly what happened," Sansa replied coldly, "isn't it, Lord Edric? That you'd become disillusioned with your father, with your responsibilities. You did not wish to rule Dorne, so you ran away to Essos, to seek out your sellsword friends in Slaver's Bay."

"It is, Your Grace," Edric mumbled. "Though I believed you said that you'd accompany Areo Hotah back to Norvos first." He'd liked none of this, though Doran's he'd protested only because he was his liege lord and also his guest. Arianne Edric shirked at because she was a woman, but Quentyn's death he liked the least, because unlike Arianne, or even Trystane, who'd once fought in an invading army against her, this Prince had absolutely nothing to do with any of his father's betrayals.

_"He's a decent man. He's not a fighter, or a warrior..."_

_"You don't have to be the one who does it," Sansa had argued with him the first night of their arrival, and she'd talked with Arya, truly talked, and learned of the actual allegiances of the Lady Ellaria, realizing that her plans for Dorne could come about much sooner than she'd originally anticipated...but only if Edric agreed in what had to be done._

_"Does it matter," he replied, sitting upon his bed looking helplessly up at her. "It's my castle, my house, they're guests of mine, we broke bread, and shared salt..."_

_"I'm your guest too," Sansa insisted. "So's Arya, so's Lady Ellaria, and all the Sands. I don't think you're the one who's cursed, if your guests murder each other under your roof. And guest rights ought not even apply to traitors, I don't believe."_

_"You know that's not how it works!"_

_"Let me bear the burden, Edric! If someone's to be the one who's cursed, let it be me, I've been long accursed already!"_

_"You don't know what you're saying, Sansa."_

_How could say did? Did he not know her so well already, had she not revealed so much of herself to him?_

_"I do, believe me Edric, I do."_

"That's what I'll do, I promise," Quentyn continued begging, tears streaming freely from his eyes now. "I'll forget I'm a Martell, I'll never raise my sword against you, I'll forget everything..."

"I wish you could do that," Sansa replied sadly. "I _wish_ I could trust you. But that's the problem, isn't it? I don't _know_ you. I _can't_ trust you. You're a threat. I can't let people I don't trust, who threaten myself and my family, continue to live in this world."

"You knew my brother," he cried out, calling upon his last resort. "You loved him! Does that not mean anything to you?"

"Trystane meant _everything_ to me," she replied angrily. _How dare he?_ She'd curse him for reminding her of her ghosts, except he had every right to do so. He was the one in the right, Sansa reminded herself, and she in the wrong. Yet it did not matter. "But you mean nothing to me."

"What would Trystane think, about everything you've done to his family?" It was his last card, and they all knew it.

"I wish he could think right now," Sansa replied, looking at Arya, gesturing at her, so that they did not have to drag this torment out much more. "But he doesn't think, he's dead."

This was what she believed. Perhaps the Old Gods were real, they'd answered her prayers atop that execution block, albeit not the way she'd intended. Maybe it was the Lord of Fire who truly reigned, she'd seen many strange things after all in the Priestess's eyes that night. But if there was one thing that Sansa Stark could be certain of, it was that the gods of the Seven were the only ones she could safely discard, that whatever hells awaited after her death to torment her, it was not the ones described in the Seven Pointed Star.

Nor was she sure that killing an innocent man like Quentyn, the first of what was to be many to come in this coming war, was a crime to be condemned by any of the Gods. Obviously the awful ones were awful, but just how much worse were they, the cruel yet revered dynasts like the Conqueror and all the killers who came before even the Dragonspawns, the very same ones who were worshiped by every knight swearing his vows to protect the innocent, including her own ancestors in the North, compared to the likes of the Mad King, Maegor, and all the other insane Targaryen and Blackfyre princes? Whether out of insanity, or rightful conquest, or family or house or name, the one thing they all had in common was slaughter. So if she was to be condemned, Sansa could take comfort that she'd merely joining every single King and warrior Prince who'd come before her, whether they sat atop the Iron Throne, or the hundreds scattered kingdoms which once graced the land as the First Men and then the Andals sailed in turn upon the shores of her realm to kill and conquer with no discretion at all.

At once, Arya pointed her needle and struck it straight into the man's heart. It was quick, Quentyn choked out several mouthfuls of blood, and his eyes faded soon after. It had been her sister who'd struck first upon Doran too, gutting him, eliciting the first of his screams before each one of the Sand Snakes took their pound of flesh with their odd and exotic weapons. Doran did not know it, he did not deserve to know it, but it had been precisely his pain and torment which just spared his son a grislier fate, because Ellaria's girls would have their quarry one way or another, so better it be inflicted upon the man who'd conspired with the Littlefinger to betray father and Robb.

The Queen and Lady Ellaria both stood back, the blood flowing far away from where their feet stood. Both of them had merely watched with Doran too, because Ellaria Sand understood the same thing...why kill yourself, when you had others to perform the task for you?

_Rhaegar knows well of that too,_ Sansa could not but think bitterly.

Edric looked away, and Sansa put an arm around him. "I'm sorry love. I know you don't like this. But this is war, and it has to be done."

"I understand."

Sansa knew exactly what he understood, because she'd understood it the moment she'd made up her mind to take the boy in her bed. The Martells had to be punished, they had to be all but wiped to extinction, so that Doran or Arianne might not change their minds upon their alliance after a fortnight, so that she did not have to constantly worry about their loyalty for the rest of her war, her reign. Eventually Edric would have needed to give them battle, perhaps ambush them on their ride back east to Sunspear. But then Doran had chosen to sail to Starfall accompanied by his sworn swords, so it was possible he suspected the same thing, and thought a trip by sail safer, Starfall not known for their fleets after all. Except Arya had told her the truth about the Sand Snakes, and Sansa realized just how quickly she could achieve her purposes, so long as Edric did not fight her.

The Queen squeezed his hand, and he squeezed her back.

"I don't expect there to be more of this," Sansa continued, pressing her eyes upon his. "They were your liege lords, it had to be done this way. But all our remaining enemies are ones we fight in the open."

Did he believe her? She needed him to.

Edric blinked, and Sansa recognized his complete subjugation. A man may pledge their swords to her, their vows, their lives and undying loyalty. Perhaps they'd actually remain true, but truest of all was possessing entirely the heart of a man who would serve her as her knight, her prince, _and_ her lover. She could do a lot worse than Edric, seducing him had been a task she'd looked forward to, once her mind had been made up on it.

Arya and all her Sands watched the two of them knowingly, cold amusement dancing inside the eyes of her sister.

"We rally all of Dorne," Edric said, picking up where she left off, stepping to her side so that they faced together their burgeoning court, the dead boy's body already forgotten. "Then we fight. We start with Horn Hill. Then the Reach, then every kingdom until the realm is united under our rightful Queen, and every last man who stands with the usurper gets what he deserves."

"You all stand with me now," Sansa proclaimed in this dark cell, their hands still joined. "One day you will stand beside me, when I return to my seat upon the Iron Throne."

_And if the boy proves his worth and his loyalty, he'll stand beside me before anyone else in the realm. I'd prefer it be him. _

_But if not, I'll find another._

Sansa tried recalling how it felt to sit in the Iron Throne, her _rightful_ inheritance. They'd given her Seven Kingdoms, the day they'd placed a crown upon her head.

Except they'd never truly belonged to her, had they?

Standing in the deepest dungeons under the castle of her lover, Sansa tried to capture this feeling in her heart. Dorne was _hers_, it belonged entirely to her, because it hadn't been given to her...she'd won it, herself.

And one kingdom won felt a hundred fold better than seven kingdoms given.


	28. Before the Dawn

**Jon**

The dwarf looked at the young ranger sympathetically.

"You worry for your friend, don't you?"

"Samwell's not a warrior. If something happens, he's not going to be able to defend himself."

"He's not going alone," Tyrion tried reassuring him. "Grenn, Pyp, Yoren, they're capable certainly. Jaime would accompany them, except...well, I'll admit all this shit cold and snow and snot of yours's beaten him down considerably since the rebellion, but...there's still a few who might recognize him...so happens that most of them appear to be our enemies."

It was odd, that the lion and the wolf would speak of shared enemies, particularly considering that his own father sat atop such a list. Samwell Tarly was an equally odd friend Jon had made in his brief time at the Wall as well. Randyll Tarly, after all, sat atop the list of Sansa's traitors, reaping his rewards in the capital as Rhaegar's Hand.

Jon had been determined in hating the fat boy at first. He'd never liked Thorne either, the old crank had always seemed a prick the few times he'd traveled to Castle Black from Greyguard, but happening upon the old knight beating down at Samwell as he cowered in a corner, Jon couldn't help feel pity for the Lord Commander's unlikely steward. They themselves formed a contradictory combination, especially considering how it was Samwell's father who took and held Tywin Lannister's daughter upon Rhaegar's return, but the old man did not seem to hold a grudge towards the son. Probably, Jon figured, the old lion of Casterly Rock had been biding his time with Tarly all the way up until this moment, when Tywin Lannister would order Samwell for his own purposes.

"I should've gone."

"And give Rhaegar his most valuable hostage of all," Tyrion chuckled.

"Doesn't matter if I'm dead. I'll kill him myself." He meant it. The Septa's would scold him for hating his own father, but Jon found it surprisingly easy in hating a man he'd never met. King Eddard, on the other hand, Queen Catelyn, Sansa and Arya, uncle Benjen's children he all met, he knew them, he loved them, as family.

"Maybe you can. Or maybe you'd fail. Your uncle's right, he's always been right...so long as Rhaegar...so long as the Targaryen cause lives, your best place is here. _Safest_ too."

"I don't care about my safety. I've fought in wars, I've stared death in the face. Samwell hasn't. None of these boys have, save Yoren, none of them's even faced a Thenn!"

"Ah, the Thenns," Tyrion chuckled, a strange matter to find humor in, Jon thought. "Maybe that's the solution...we let them through the Wall, and tell them eat their way down into King's Landing. Though, I've met your father. Rhaegar won't make much of a meal, I'm afraid. But Mace Tyrell...I'd bet they'd cook him up, nice and plump."

Despite his best judgment, Jon chuckled at the thought too, of letting the wildlings dine on all of Rhaegar's Small Council. He wished there was more treason he could commit against his father besides the smallest ones in his mind.

"I do share your concern though," Tyrion continued. They sat in the library, surely the only place Jon knew to look when he sought out the Half Man, aside from the feed hall. Maester Aemon had passed seven moons before, and though they wore not the chains, Tyrion and Samwell kept to all their books and records in the meantime. "Travelling through what's soon to be a war torn country...assuming the war hasn't broken out already..."

"Sneaking into Horn Hill," Jon added, aware that his voice rang too loudly for their own good, "asking a man to betray his father."

Except Jon would happily betray such a man, after hearing from Samwell all the torments he'd endured in his life, the Night's Watch seemingly a better existence than his time as the heir to House Tarly.

"Betraying their vows," Tyrion concluded with a smile, "on behalf of the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, who's also betraying his vows in turn. All the more reason to keep your voice low."

"The things we do for family, hmmm?"

"For innocent children...who happen to be family."

Jon could not argue with that. Were it anyone else, were it pertain to anyone else, he'd protest, he'd scream his accusations to every may on the Watch, from Eastwatch to the Shadow Tower. Tywin Lannister using his position to make secretly meddle in the wars of the Throne would threaten to ruin the order forever. It may well do so even if they were successful, for all Jon knew.

Except he thought of Myrcella, Tommen, and Rykka. Sansa and Arya, Bran and Rickon.

_Damn Rhaegar, and damn the Watch with him._

Though he imagined that his cousin would doubtlessly pardon all of them were she to end up on the winning end of the war. If not, then Jon may be the only one of his brothers to survive the purge to come.

The pretense was for Samwell to travel to Oldtown, study at the Citadel, and receive his maester's chains on behalf of the Night's Watch. It just so happened that Horn Hill was on the way, so long as they didn't travel by ship. Which was too dangerous, Lord Tywin had stated, because of the Greyjoy threat to the coasts.

"Assuming they make it out of Horn Hill alive," Jon said, feeling little soothed in his concerns, "the most dangerous part might be making it to Dorne." He'd be several glasses of ale deep already, if it weren't for the fact that it was still morning. Even Tyrion seemed restrained in his consumption for the time being.

"The Red Mountains are mild in winter," Tyrion said, trying to reassure him. "The paths are well traveled, and...," the dwarf looked around the empty library cautiously.

"And what?"

"Promise you won't say a word?"

"Aye, I'm caught up in enough secrets already."

"They might have some help."

_So he's been holding out!_

Jon turned his eyes at the Half Man in disbelief. He'd be tempted to strike him, were it not for the fact that the dwarf just offered the promise of good news.

"I _was_ the Lord of Casterly Rock once, you know, like my father before me. I did make the acquaintance of many of my vassals."

"So?"

"Were there the possibility that a stray lord or two, sympathetic to our cause, who may have written letters for me, which I then passed along to my father...indicating that our relations remain, despite the uncle who usurped our castle..."

"We've got allies in the Westerlands?"

Jon blinked several times. Just what else did they know, that they'd neglected to tell him, that meant life or death for Samwell and Pyp and Grenn? Laughing, reading his frustration, Tyrion merely rose and clapped him on the back, eager to not satisfy him further.

"The war's just beginning, boy. I've a feeling there's plenty of alliances and betrayals to come, that seem inconceivable to us here in this damned icebox."

* * *

**The Hand**

"We need to do _something_."

Kevan Lannister was a man Randyll Tarly respected, yet the Hand to King Rhaegar barely resisted the urge to snap at his colleague on the Small Council for such an obvious and useless remark. It wasn't the fault of the Lord of Casterly Rock, or even his own, Randyll thought, their sheer impatience and inability to think straight and reasonably through the mess which had broken out across what seemed to be all Seven Kingdoms trying even the gentlest of temperaments.

"We can't move on the Sparrows now," Randyll replied, resisting the urge to thump his head against the table. He'd been so close to solving so many of their worst problems with one stroke. "Purging them will lend credence to the...accusations."

"There's no credence to be had," Kevan cried indignantly. "The High Sparrow is...a bit much, to be honest. He was a necessary evil, _at the time_. But an agent of some _Red_ God? It's just...it's just ridiculous."

"Purging them would make it seem less ridiculous," he rebutted. "It doesn't help, we let that priestess share an audience with the King and the High Sparrow, that had to be the girl's doing." Who could've thought that she'd outsmarted them, or that it would matter, such a minor and inconsequential detail at the time?

Randyll continued. "At best, it would look like we'd been fooled by the man, that we're _reacting_ to the accusations. Which would suggest there's at least a small degree of truth to the accusations, in the eyes of the realm. And just which kernels of truth would the lords choose to believe in? That we were fools? That we had no choice to raise them, despite our doubts? That we knowingly or unknowingly put the Faith in the hands of a heretic, a fire worshiper? Then what does that say about the Sept..."

_"We had nothing to do with the Sept!"_

The King's passionate denial would lend Randyll to believe otherwise. He'd always wondered. Particularly when it came to a man like Varys, who had no limits. Or Connington, who possessed little restraint of the personal kind.

"The truth doesn't matter," Kevan conceded happily, "so long as the people actually believe all of these ridiculous lies."

"Pardon the expression," Randyll said, having given much thought to the matter over the last fortnight, "but we have to fight fire with fire."

"How," Rhaegar asked, sitting upwards and alert in his chair.

"They throw out accusations of heresy, we do the same. Sansa Stark is a fanatic of the Old Gods. We found letters in her chambers after her escape, telling of she'd fallen under the influence of her uncle Benjen, and all his northern lords, after her father's death. She called the Boltons to the capital, and ordered them to do her bidding. This is the war she continues to wage still, not for the Faith, not even for House Stark...but for the Old Gods of the North." Randyll sighed, forcing himself to say out loud the next words. "And we must depend on the Sparrows to turn back these northern fanatics."

"Doesn't hurt our cause then, Blackwood's rebellion," Mace Tyrell said. Apparently Tytos Blackwood had attacked and taken Stone Hedge the moment he'd learned of the Queen's escape, and read of her accusations. But the Lord of Highgarden looked more skeptically at Randyll. "Just how...believable is this story we're telling?"

"As believable as these tales of the red god," Randyll rebutted, before looking carefully at his King, "were it not for the fact that it's the _Princess_ who's the one spreading them. We'll need someone similarly credible. Your daughter Margaery attended to the Queen for several years, didn't she?"

"She did," Mace replied, furrowing his bushy eyebrows as he understood the implication. "I can have her say that...she saw Sansa Stark keeping to the Old Gods?"

"That she attended to the Godswood in secret daily," Randyll. "That she saw her hiding away for secret audiences with the Boltons. Perhaps we can have some letters forged, suggesting she knew and instructed Roose and his bastard...but it'll have to do for now."

The matter was settled with relative speed, thank the Gods. The idea was far fetched, Daenerys Targaryen's crazed testimony catching fire through the Westerlands and beyond by the day, along with the late Doran Martell's convenient yet damning confession, and Randyll understood that whatever story they could scramble together at this point would pale comparatively. But they had little other choice, did they? The girl, both girls actually, had caught them unawares, sneaking through not a march on them, but an equally deadly coup of stories, though Randyll supposed this was how women would fight their wars. So they had to respond quickly in return, there was no time for dithering now, nor could they afford to underestimate these two women again.

"We still have four positions in the Kingsguard to replace," Mace added, chagrined.

"I have a man," Kevan said from his position, seated across from Tarly, both of them bordering the King by the head of the table. "He's...well, he's a brute, but he's a damned good fighter. Tyrion thought him useful, and he served as the Queen's Justice on several occasions before..."

"Clegane," Mace guessed. Lannister nodded. "He's a beast of a man, he'll be good to have on our side once the war starts."

The words sounded good, but to honest, Randyll was not so much concerned about individual whitecloaks once the war did inevitably start, not when the men whom he would need to win it numbered in the thousands. But the fact that they'd been reduced to one surviving Kingsguard, not counting Swann in the Black Cells was, like everything else since that dreadful night, a disaster when it came to the _perception_ of King and Council by the realm, from the lords down to Flea Bottom. Old Mandon Moore was a good swordsman and would serve a good placeholder Lord Commander for now, but Tarly saw no need to summon the man to their meetings in the meantime.

They'd worried for a fortnight after not having heard from Penrose since his departure with the Queen. Connington sent word to Griffin's Roost and his knights rode north, confirming what they suspected already. The Master of War had wondered sardonically if it had been bandits after all, but then came whispers of armies rallying and gathering from the marches to Griffin's Roost itself, where Connington's own bannermen had stood by and done nothing as a thousand men landed from Tarth and marched their way westwards, presumably in the direction of the treasonous Marcher lords. Then came the letters, all but confirmation that not only had the Queen survived, but that she'd somehow rallied the few lords who would still raise their banners for the girl south of the Trident, a prospect which he'd unfortunately overlooked, thinking all their enemies lay within the northern three kingdoms.

"Who knew the girl still had friends in the Stormlands," Connington muttered unhappily. "All these rebels slipping by Baratheon's nose, we should have his head for that."

"She pulled one over your head too," Kevan snapped accusingly at the red haired man's direction. The King's old friend wasn't worth much, Randyll had come to decide, beside a random bout of whinging ever so often. "We were all fooled. I...I'd worry for my own life now, were I to return to Casterly Rock."

"Then don't," Rhaegar commanded. "I'll ride west. Daenerys is my sister, her treas...her...misperceptions my failure."

"It's too risky, Your Grace. If you are unable to speak reason to the girl, then we give the rebels their most valuable hostage, if we're lucky."

"No, that won't do," the King agreed, the idea dissipating just as quickly as it formed. Rhaegar mulled his fingers together morosely, undoubtedly recalling his father's ordeal at the hands of the Darklyns.

It was yet another stupid idea, but at least all the disasters had finally awakened the King out of his stupor, Rhaegar not having missed one Council meeting since the news came of Penrose's death. His mind seemed to perceive all that was discussed, albeit most of it was bad news, besides the one raven telling of Lysa Arryn's death.

"I've a response from the Eyrie," Tarly remembered, pulling out a scroll. "From Ser Lyn Corbray, the heir to Heart's Home and now, apparently, Lord Protector of the Vale. _'The Vale will remain independent as it has been for thousands of years. King Robin I Arryn will rise and be remembered as his greatest ancestors.'_"

"A rogue knight and a sickly child," Connington said dismissively. "That can't last for long, the man probably pushed the boy's mother out the Moon Door."

"So long as they hold the gates," Kevan said. He asked Randyll. "Have we reached out to the Royces?"

"Sent the letters the last night," he replied. "The Hardyng boy too, he stands to gain if Robin Arryn is attainted for his continued defiance. Nothing we can do now but wait."

"Maybe Bracken will hear of something up north," Kevan conceded.

The first whisper their new Master of Whispers had heard was news of his own castle's seizure by Blackwood, his remaining family barely managing their escape. Whatever abilities the Lord of Stone Hedge possessed, or didn't possess, his greatest asset was undoubtedly the five unwed daughters his wife had borne him. Their first Council meeting upon learning of the Queen's escape had been spent arranging the subsequent flurry of betrothals, ones which would not have been arranged so hastily under the typical circumstances.

Willas Tyrell and Barbara Bracken would be wed the moment his army arrived at Highgarden, the bride's father's presence be damned. Garlan Tyrell to Wylla Lydden, a middling house in the Westerlands but whose family held Deep Den, the key mountain pass connecting Casterly Rock to King's Landing. His own Talla's wedding to Loras would occur days after his brother Willas's, the very day his host passed from Highgarden to arrive at Horn Hill. He'd had better hopes for Dickon's prospects, but considering the circumstances his son would have to wed Bess Bracken alongside his sister. Jayne Bracken was to wed the boy Lord of Driftmark Monterys, nephew of their Master of Law, and of the two remaining girls, one had already been promised to House Brax in the Westerlands, who'd been amongst the first to denounce the treasons coming out of Casterly Rock, the other to whomever Jonos would see fit to reward in exchange for putting down the Blackwood rebellion.

The importance of the Redwynes were not to be understated, considering their fleet, a significant advantage over any army the girl Queen might try to raise. Horas Redwyne, Paxter's heir, had already been betrothed to Baelor Hightower's eldest daughter, though Randyll had written for them to move ahead the marriage as soon as they could. His twin brother Hobber would already be tied to a Bracken girl by now, had they not called him to King's Landing to help replenish the Kingsguard. There was even talk for Connington to marry, not something which appealed to the old man, or any blushing maiden who'd have to share his bed and carry his child, Randyll figured. But even Connington recognized the severity of the situation, and so they had discussed Leyton Hightower's eldest daughter Malora, the Mad Maid, who was a recluse in the tower along with her father.

_Better two broken seeds together than apart._

Letters sent to Storm's End had not been returned, or else it would be the Lady Shireen Monterys Velaryon would be betrothed to and not a Bracken. For Renly Baratheon they'd considered the Mad Maid too. Perhaps Shireen's guardian had perceived the offer of the strange old spinster an insult, Renly had always been a bit sensitive, and Tarly swore he'd make no similar mistake again. Regardless, it was a good start, they stood more than a fighting chance in this war, so long as they did not hesitate.

"I march south before the sun sets tonight," Randyll said, rising to leave. "Every single bannerman in the Reach will be surrounding Horn Hill in less than a fortnight, the North _will_ be kept out of this war."

"I don't like doing nothing," Kevan said, the frustrated Master of Ship moaned unhappily.

"You're not doing nothing," Randyll insisted, "you hold the defense of King's Landing, should Bracken be rebuffed and the Tully's make their move. The Brax's, Lyddens, and Baneforts will move on Casterly Rock, though I've no doubt they'll take care to be gentle with the Princess and Lord Lancel."

"Gentle, yes," Rhaegar said ponderously. "She must be in a..._state_...her mind must not be well. We will help, bring her to King's Landing...she'll be well again...I'll see to it myself."

"And Connington," Randyll turned to the Master of War, though he was the one conducting the man's duties at the moment, "you know your orders?"

"Burn the marches to the ground," the man they called Griff said with glee. It made Randyll nervous. War was a serious business, not to be something looked forward to, as if a game or a tourney. Perhaps that had been the reason the man had failed in both his last two wars. While any defeat for the Crown would be devastating, out of all the wars set alight against the four winds, Randyll wondered whether the demise of Connington's campaign could be the least deleterious to the Crown's cause.

"I'll go with Griff," Rhaegar pronounced out of nowhere, referring to his old friend by the name he'd been known as during the reign of the King's father. They all looked to Rhaegar in shock, even Connington.

It was Griff who would dare rebuff the King first. "Your Grace, are you sure? We have to march...quickly, make haste."

"Then tell the riders to make haste with my wheelhouse," Rhaegar replied coldly, his tone firm, scolding, and unrelenting, a bizarre echo of the valiant Prince he had been twenty years before. "A King cannot sit and wait in his castle while his men do battle for him. The people deserve to see their King. And they will."

"Your Grace..." This time it was Kevan's turn, but immediately Randyll moved to interrupt him.

_If Rhaegar and Connington win their battles, it will restore faith in the Crown._

_If not..._

_Even if they scour the Stormlands, they'd be tempted to continue south to Dorne, the deathtrap of past Targaryen kings..._

_Then around whom would people rally..._

_To a girl, a failed Queen?_

_Or a child who represents the perfect union from the last two wars?_

_And a Regency Council of rare stolidness and ability._

"You're right," Tarly agreed, to Kevan's shock and chagrin. "This war will be like no other, not even the Stark and Baratheon Rebellion, what with the stakes, not with the faiths and all the accusations of heresy thrown about. There'll be slaughter, people will suffer, cities and villages will burn. We need the people to see their King, so as to remind them of whom they fight for."

"A King's duty rises above that of all men's," Rhaegar said nobly, as if he were about to stand and draw a sword or proclaim a knight amongst a table of old lords. "I know mine, by the Gods I will do it."

"Just stay away from Prince's Pass or the Boneway," Tarly warned, wondering whether the two men would take his counsel as a suggestion or a taunt. "Dorne is the girl's stronghold now, and Dorne has never been taken."

* * *

**Sansa**

Most of her travels have always been from the inside of a wheelhouse. They had her learn to ride, of course, and as a young princess she could ride well for short distances, her posture and speed good enough to spare her from criticism. Sansa had never particularly enjoyed the activity, which meant it a burden once they crowned her, the few journeys she'd taken as a Queen requiring short bouts of endurance whenever her royal procession rode through any small village, town, or to her destination in Winterfell and back.

Then came everything that happened. Then they'd found her, Edric and Beric and Brienne. So she'd ridden through the marches and the mountains day and night, not just because her life depended upon it, though it did, but because Arya's life depended her still, and aunt Cersei's and her children's. And all her enemies, all their lives depended upon her survival too, at least to the extent so that she'd see their demise one day. Every muscle in her body ached those first mornings from the constant riding, though Edric contributed his share to her exhaustion as well, but pain was little trouble for the Queen in what she'd already considered to be her second life.

By the time they'd reached Starfall her body had become accustomed to the constant riding. That was fortunate, because it boded for what was to come ahead. Ellaria and the Sand Snakes returned to Sunspear with Joffrey and the bodies of Doran and Arianne. Upon their arrival, they would continue on to the Water Gardens, send every piece of gold back to Starfall, and sell every jewel and treasure, laces, dresses, statues and trinkets, so as to pay for the feed and keep for the army they were calling, every fighting man and the occasional woman through the entire kingdom of Dorne. Apart from her, the Water Gardens had been the great love of Trystane's short life, the one treasure he loved even more than his distant father or siblings who'd paid him little heed all his life. Sansa did not ever wish to see the palaces with her own eyes, because if Trystane were not alive to see them, then they simply did not deserve to exist.

"I'd never seen the desert before," Sansa said, riding over one wave of hilly ridges after another, her body stronger than she'd ever felt it. "Not until I'd come to Dorne."

Though they'd ridden several times west, to inspect the defenses lying between Starfall and the Reach, they could never continue any further towards the other side of the mountains, where Horn Hill lay. Every scout who'd returned from the passes overlooking the Reach had stated that Randyll Tarly's castle seemed at this point the most closely guarded in all of Westeros, most of Highgarden's banners having marched south to man the walls by the time the Martells had met their end in Starfall.

_"Didn't you say you know of some secret entrance the castle," Sansa questioned him._

_"I do," her lover, her paramour, as the Dornish called it, answered earnestly. "But we'd doubtlessly raise the alarms, even if we were to reach Lady Cersei and her children, we'd never make it back to Starfall with all the Reach giving chase."_

_She'd fretted, pacing the tiles of their room that night by the fire._

_"They're still alive, aren't they," Edric questioned._

_"They are. For how much longer, I don't know."_

_"If they haven't killed them, they're smart enough to know to keep them alive. They wouldn't be sending more and more soldiers there, if it was Lord Tarly's intent to have them murdered. Then, they'll truly be outnumbered, with all the North thundering south in revenge."_

_It was true. It also seemed like an excuse, were Edric wrong, and Sansa could only hope, because she no longer prayed, that his conjecture would prove correct._

"They say the Red Wastes in Essos stretch as far from Castle Black, to past King's Landing," Edric said dreamily, his wild hair blowing in the dry breezes of Dorne, warm even in the winter. "It's a child's garden, what we have here in Dorne."

There were always places to ride. More and more men were gathering at Starfall and in the hills north along the Torentine. So she rode with Edric, to explore each ridge after the last, see what lay upon the other side, the view points, the terrain, the streams and bogs and hidden nooks of the mountains, each feature a potential defense or battleground. Edric brought no map, he kept none either, yet he held all he saw in his mind, Sansa had questioned him afterwards to test him, and he'd never failed. Sometimes she rode with Arya, who drilled and practiced formations with the men arriving, along with Thoros and Arys Oakheart, one of her Queensguard who'd fallen captive to Doran along her sister and Tyrion, and Andrey Dalt, a young and handsome knight her sister had befriended in her years in Sunspear. Obara and Nymeria, the eldest of the Sand Snakes, remained as well, to help ready their gathering army.

"I won't say it's beautiful, the desert," Sansa said, riding the path from Starfall to Prince's Pass, a well familiar road that even she could recall by memory now. "It's different though. It's strange, it's...vivid, and clear, and..."

"Stark," Edric finished her sentence with a grin, "that's the word you're looking for, isn't it?"

First she stared incredulously at the young man. "You're the stupidest knight in all seven kingdoms, do you know that?"

"What about you then, Your Grace," Edric teased, "following such a stupid man, relying upon him to win for you seven fucking kingdoms and an Iron Throne, a dimwit who's stupider than the stupidest of the Conqueror's dragons?"

He always teased her, he'd never been afraid to, even when they'd first met. Sansa liked that actually. The Littlefinger never teased her, he just praised her, seeking her approval and favor while he stabbed her in the back. The Queen found herself remembering how to laugh, riding with Edric between one camp and another. She smelled more, she saw more...she _felt_ more. It was as if Ser Boros's sword had indeed cut through her neck that morning, setting her free into this new life, though the burdens of her old life remained with her, the ghosts.

"You're right," Sansa agreed. "I am stupid. You know what isn't stupid? My sister, and her sword hand."

"I believe that," Edric replied, feigning a shiver.

Rarely did they ride together, the three of them. Edric knew her well enough that she needed her time alone with Arya, and not just inside Starfall either, and if she had to guess, Arya knew her sister felt the same needs with Edric.

_"He's good for you," she'd whispered to her one night, both of them having taken in far too many of the ample jugs of Dornish red._

_"He's just a boy," Sansa replied, though she couldn't help but smile, "with a good name and a better army."_

_Seeing Arya about to object to something, Sansa had interjected first._

_"Years ago, I thought he'd make a good husband for you, did you know that? When I first met him by the banks of the Blackwater after the battle."_

_Arya squinted her eyes at her. "Why?"_

_"Well...he's handsome. Though...I was really a child then, and Edric even younger, so I wouldn't have thought him handsome then. But fair to look at, he'd probably be handsome one day, I figured. And a good soldier, he'd killed a man that battle, I thought you'd like all that. You'd like his name too, Arthur Dayne's nephew. I thought...considering the whispers about father and the Lady Ashara before the war...perhaps it'd be appropriate, a Dayne and a Stark, united once more."_

_"Seems like you fulfilled your own prophecy, sister," Arya replied with a wink. First she took another sip of wine. Then Arya pressed one finger against her lips. "Better it stay that way, Andrey wouldn't like hearing about me and Edric."_

_"Andrey," Sansa asked incredulously. "Andrey Dalt?"_

_Though that particular young heir wasn't bad on the eyes, it was more that Sansa was surprised her sister would have taken a liking to anyone, particularly Andrey who, though fair and fair with a sword, didn't seem to possess much more abilities than that._

_Arya stared her down, and but it was her younger sister who gave way first, breaking into laughter. "Trust me, Your Grace, he hasn't touched your sister. Nor will he, not until he's won seven kingdoms for Queen Sansa, I made him promise that."_

_"That's mean, you're using him!"_

_"And you're not using Edric," Arya challenged._

_It wasn't a fair question, and her laughing came to a stop._

_"I am," the Queen insisted, but her sister refused to be mollified._

_"And?"_

_"I like it too," she admitted, before reaching and swallowing several mouthfuls of her wine. "Is that treason?"_

_"I don't know," Arya shrugged. "You're the Queen, you tell me."_

They talked about boys, Sansa realized, because that subject hurt the least. They'd not exchanged a word about their brothers, not since that first reunion under Doran Martell's watchful eyes. Nor her daughter, Sansa hadn't even confided to Arya the name she'd given her. That was a secret she swore to keep to herself, until the day she met Rhaegar again, her family's eternal enemy knelt in submission before her. Father and Robb...or mother, would they argue with each other what was worse, seeing mother wounded, bleeding and dying in a cramped wheelhouse? Or sitting half a world away, frittering the days until the worst enemy of your family comes bearing the ill news?

"Look," Sansa pointed out.

"What is it?

"The path to the hot springs!" Where she'd bathed while Edric stood guard. "We should go!"

"I don't know," Edric hesitated. "Lord Manwoody's host await us on the other side."

Sansa giggled. _ Stupid. You're not a stupid girl anymore, Sansa._

"What?"

First she gripped the reins of her steed, riding towards the side path. When Edric followed, Sansa gestured him closer, and whispered to him with a smirk. "Come join me in a bath, and we can find ourselves our own man woody host."

As she'd predicted, Edric had needed little more convincing after that. Once submerged under the soothing waters, they did little more than bathe, and kiss, and play with each other with their hands and fingers. If Edric were disappointed, he could be assured that he'd get all he could handle from her in camp later that night at the Manwoody camp, but Sansa had a feeling that he was plenty satisfied by their watery frolicking for the afternoon. She'd fallen asleep first, for a few minutes perhaps, less than an hour certainly, and she'd woken to Edric snoring lightly, his head rested beneath her collarbone. The sun already past its midday mark, Sansa shook her lover awake.

"Are you alive?"

He woke with a the grin of a satisfied glutton upon his lips. "No. I'm dead, and waking in the seventh of the heavens."

_You poor boy, you're really falling for me._

"Thank you," Sansa suddenly whispered, without any prior thought, realizing too late that her mind still lay by slumber's door.

"For what," her lover asked, befuddled.

"For everything," she replied, lifting his body up with her arm with a strength she possessed only under the surface of the water. Everything else came easily, once she'd mouthed the initial words. "For saving me. For riding with me, for...for giving me this new life. I wouldn't have thought it possible, after that night. That I could smile again. That I could fall asleep and wake, not absolutely dreading the next day. That I could hope, that I wouldn't feel that I was dead already, my body just going through the motions. And I'd just realized now...that I'd never had a chance to properly thank you yet, for all that. So thank you, Edric."

_For breaking guest rights for me, for allowing me to curse the both of us._

_Fuck curses._

His dumb grin remained stuck upon his lips. "It's my duty, Your Grace. As a...well..."

"Well what," Sansa questioned harshly. What stupid jibe was going to come out of his mouth now, after she'd confessed the secrets of her heart to him?

"You were wrong earlier."

"About what," the Queen asked threateningly, digging her fingernails deeper into his skin, though careful not to actually hurt him.

"I'm not a knight," Edric answered shyly, as if ashamed of the fact.

"You're not?"

"Nope," he affirmed, with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Well, you _should_ be."

"We were too...well, busy trying to figure out a way to save your royal ass, Beric and I," he said, his sloppy grin turned maniacally impish again, as Sansa felt his fingers sliding deviously against her thighs, the boy fully awakening from his nap. "We just never had the time, I guess, I thought Beric would do so before we parted, but it wasn't worth the risk of capture."

Pulling away from him, Sansa glared cruelly at his crestfallen glance as she swam the short distance to the other side of the springs, where their clothes lay in a heap. Pulling herself out of the pool, Sansa shivered at the cold bite of the winter sun, yet forced herself to avoid the temptation of drawing and covering her body with her robes. Instead, she found Edric's sword by his belt, laid against the stump of a tree, and unsheathed it.

"Kneel."

Her lover's deep blue eyes widened. "Are you being serious?"

"Do you want to be a knight or not?"

Without further hesitation he swam in her direction, pulling his pale body from the hot springs and knelt clumsily before her, his half swollen manhood fluttering dumbly against his muscular thighs.

"Should we get dressed," he asked, but the Queen was already lowering the blade against his bare shoulder, droplets of water crawling against his skin down upon the sandy shoreline.

"In the name of the Warrior," Sansa began, citing words seemed long lost, paying fealty to Gods she no longer believed in, "I charge you to be brave."

Ignoring their naked state, the cold air nipping against their skin, Edric bowed his head and shut his eyes.

"In the name of the Father," she whispered, "I charge you to be just."

_Like my father, Eddard the Just. No God can compare to him._

"In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent."

_I miss you, mother. You made your mistakes, but you tried so hard. And we're still here, Arya and I._

His eyes still closed, he did not see the cruel smirk growing upon her face.

"In the name of the Maiden, I charge you to pleasure me with your tongue."

That woke him up. Knelt before her still, blue eyes searched hers, hopeful, yet unsure, as if he were her puppy dog, awaiting orders that weren't sufficiently clear.

"Your Grace?"

"You heard your Queen. Better get on with it, before she allows you to arise."

When his eyes shifted, it was not in the direction of where Sansa wanted them to. Instead, Edric looked nervously at his sword, still hanging casually in the grip of her right hand.

"Um...don't you think you should drop that first?"

"What," Sansa challenged, "are you too much of a coward to fulfill the first knightly task you're charged with?"

She did need to taunt him further. Feeling his hands grip the back of her thighs, the Queen closed her eyes, dropped her lover's sword upon the ground, and held with both her hands fistfuls of his hair, as if the reins to her steed. Edric bent down as far as he could, and the Queen stepped forward, to mount herself over his lips, allowing herself to forget for a few blessed moments the winter's cold air against her skin, and trying to not recall too vividly how Trystane had pleasured her in a similar manner a lifetime ago.

Except it hadn't been the same, had it? The surroundings were far more plush, yet they'd both been prisoners.

But this day she stood freely, a wolf in the wild. Even as she screamed in growing delight, Sansa Stark swore she'd never be a prisoner again, so long as she lived.


	29. The Dreams of Ghosts

**Edric**

They presided over the court of his parents and his ancestors as if the ancient seat of the Kings of the Torentine had been restored. Lord Edric Dayne, who was not his uncle Arthur, sat beside Sansa at the head table, ruling something more or less than one kingdom as Queen and King regnant both, evenly positioned beside the center of the table, as if they were already married, speaking as one in the manner of Jaehaerys the Conciliation and his wife the Good Queen Alysanne, rather than allies of convenience who'd yet but met less than a year before. Were they lovers of convenience too? The thought was not one completely foreign to Edric, that were he not a lord but an heir or a second son, a younger brother, a landed knight, or even a lord with but an insignificant castle or lands or name, then he would've never discovered a Queen sharing his bed every night.

And what of it then? Was it not his duty, to serve his Queen in whichever way demanded of him, whether militarily, politically, or personally? If the Queen ordered him to murder his liege lords, his guests, in the cellars of his castle, was it not true that he was bound to obey? After all, only Doran had suffered, and his fate kinder than the fate that most traitors deserved and received. For Areo Hotah, a soldier who'd taken nearly all of the Sand Snakes and the Princess Stark to subdue, Ned felt little sympathy for either. It was the Norvoshi man's duty to give his life to protect his Prince. That he would die while failing would have been the man's worst fear, yet he would have given it consideration all the same at one point in his life or another, same as any soldier or knight prepared to his sword in battle.

But for Arianne and Quentyn? All Edric could console himself with was that neither of them had suffered too unduly, except in their minds, knowing and protesting what was to come.

_It's better than watching men burn. _

Would his vaunted uncle agree with him, that whatever sacred vows of guest right they'd broken, surely the gods would condemn him less for than the burning the lords of the North without trial, or the act, or lack of it, while watching silently as it happened?

"Tell me this," the Queen commanded at his side at the two supplicants. "The blows which killed my father and Prince Robb, did either one come from you?"

The older woman shook her head. "I was leagues away besieging Stannis," Yara Greyjoy stated plainly. Edric didn't think she was lying, because she did not seem the type to ever feel the need to, not when she could cut and stab her way out of any predicament. Apparently Sansa agreed, and the Queen's attention turned to the younger man beside her.

"King Theon?"

They'd address them by their chosen titles, Sansa had decided, because in truth they were both supplicating the other, Sansa having ordered summons sent to the Stepstones even before Arya Stark and her sisters in murder had cut apart Doran Martell piece by piece. And the truth was just as likely that the would be King and Queen of the Iron Islands had started their sail westwards before even receiving the summons. It was confusing to Ned, did they intend to wed, or would they both retain their titles in an un-Targaryen manner, if they ever took back their father's stronghold on Pyke? Would they wage war and fight it out, one last battle once their common enemy was vanquished?

_Say the right thing,_ Edric thought, _or none of your plans for the future will matter, because neither of you will live to see morning._

"I fought your brother in battle," Theon Greyjoy admitted to the makeshift court of Sansa I Stark. "T'be honest, he was good, very good, I could barely get a scratch on him. But he was busy fighting me, and didn't see my uncle Euron come in from behind him."

"And it was Jon Connington who struck down King Eddard," Yara Greyjoy added bluntly, "this is known."

The Queen remained silent as she stared down the two former enemies, whether they would remain so not entirely decided yet in her mind.

"Convenient, isn't it? But is it the truth?"

"It tis," Theon answered, "I swear upon the Drowned God, by my name, my father's name."

It was almost as if Edric could hear the rage churning inside the Queen's heart and mind at the mention of Balon Greyjoy, even if not by name. But he looked to Sansa, and her face remained stone. Ned readied his sword, half expecting to hear the order given anyway.

"The Crown will support the claims of Theon and Yara of House Greyjoy to the Iron Islands," the Queen finally decided, and Edric breathed a sigh of relief, perhaps an even heavier one than that of the pirates before them. "You will return to the Stepstones, rally all your people, bring together as many bands of fighters as possible, whether allies of yours, or rivals, and ready them all for the upcoming war."

Ned spared a look to his aunt Allyria, who had arrived with little Arthur, her son by Beric, half a fortnight ago. The marcher lords would remain in their marches to protect their homelands from the arriving armies, unless ordered otherwise by Sansa. Much as it would have comforted Edric to have Beric's guiding voice and wisdom by his side again, they'd decided together to let it be, as war in the Stormlands would preempt any invasion of Dorne, giving them the chance to further ready their own army while hopefully getting a glimpse of how Rhaegar and Randyll Tarly planned to conduct their part of the war.

"There's plenty of Tyroshi scoundrels who'd love to have my head," Yara replied scornfully, speaking more assuredly now that she'd been promised implicitly the safety of herself and her brother. "They'd love to have yours too, Your Grace. _Other_ parts too, from both of us. So unless you start promising them some of the gold yer busy melting down, or statues you're selling off from the Water Gardens, I don't expect you any chance of winning them over."

"The Water Gardens belong to Dorne," the Queen answered calmly. "Their treasures will be returned to the people of Dorne, who raise their swords today to defend their lands, their Prince, and their Queen. But many great houses have betrayed me, Queen Yara, and many houses continue to make war against me...against _us_. The jewels of the Reach...Highgarden, Oldtown, Horn Hill, may I remind you that they are not without treasures either."

Her words elicited a hungry, primal fervor out of the Greyjoy siblings, and Edric had to remind himself that, lofty titles or not, these were still pirates at heart who stood before them.

"Aye, I get you," Theon Greyjoy said. His posture stood respectfully and at attention, but Edric could not help feel pings of jealousy at the way the man's eyes leered towards Sansa. He imagine this would not escape her notice either.

"This war will not be kind," Sansa answered calmly, ignoring his would be lechery, "and there will be many dark days and nights of bloodshed. But we must remind ourselves that we are not our enemies, we are better than them. There will not be any rapine, and children will be spared if possible. Tell your men that, tell the other bands who would sail with you the Queen's commands, no salt wives, not when there's plenty whores and brothels across the realm, and ample coin to pay their way. Your riches and your rewards will come from the men and women who willfully decided to commit their treasons. Our war will _not_ be waged against smallfolk who are innocent of the crimes of their lords."

"Aye," Yara answered, after they continued facing each other uneasily, both of them surely measuring the difficulties of how to command their fellow pirates to not commit piracy. "It is understood. But yer no fool, Your Grace, it'll take every last scratch of coin and treasure in Highgarden, down to the damned roses themselves, fer the men t'restrain themselves."

"And they will be more than amply rewarded for their restraint," Sansa answered, not without glee in her voice, "I assure you of that."

"So we win this war against the dragons for you," Theon said, stepping one foot forward. "And then what? You command seven kingdoms to lay siege on Pyke against our uncle? What assurances would you give us, that you'll fulfill your end of the bargain once we've done the same?"

_You think to ask for her hand too, fool? Careful, idiot, you know little of what you'd be getting yourself into, this is a Queen who's far more dangerous than yours._

"The bargain will fulfill itself," Edric answered. "We will squeeze and press the usurprer and his armies. Even as we speak, the Riverlands, the Vale, and the Westerlands are rallying and marching on behalf of their rightful Queen. The tighter we close the vise, the more desperate our enemies will become. They will then naturally seek out more allies."

"Which will draw Euron into this war," Yara said with a knowing smirk.

"With any luck," Ned continued, "you'll have your uncle dead and your kingdom secure before even having to lay foot on Pyke."

They'd discussed this together the previous evening. While their nights together remained as active, instead of lounging casually afterwards, enjoying endlessly the feel of each other's bodies as if they were lovers without any other cares in the world, now they'd resume their study of the maps, Edric noting carefully with his quill each hill or valley or hidden path he knew of, Sansa filling him in on her knowledge of all the houses and her presumptions of their loyalties, honed after years of study with the maesters, and then during her awful captivity.

"It's the Freys I worry about," Sansa said, the thin silk hanging loosely off her body after yet another post coital strategy session, her open belly and navel facing the desk. The Dornish garbs did not fit her as well in style, Edric thought, as the loose fitting robes of the Sand Snakes fit her sister, but Sansa looked just as tantalizing to him tonight as always, she would in every way regardless of what she wore, or didn't wear.

"Didn't your Uncle Edmure marry a Frey," Edric frowned. All the tables in his formerly barren chambers were now covered with maps of seemingly every kingdom, pieces littering each corner of the parchment, Sansa ordering what seemed to be dozens of new sigil carvings by the day to further litter the sheets. All the houses and their loose loyalties seemed too much for Edric, the warfare part of the actual war was so much simpler, though perhaps that was why they got along well, both in leisure and in war, because he could not conduct a war without an army, and they could not build an army without Sansa's knowledge of her realms.

"Yes, and old Walder ought to have been happy about that afterwards," Sansa replied, worried, "not continuing to seek alliances with Jonos Bracken and all the like. I need to write my uncle...I don't think I'll feel comfortable about the northern kingdoms, not until I've heard word that the Brackens had been repulsed."

"That's the problem, isn't it," Edric replied thoughtfully. Remembering something he'd glanced through that morning, Ned flipped through a stack of letters, pulling out the one scroll he'd sought. "The Royces have declared for you. We'll write them, tell them to march into the Riverlands against any armies the Brackens can muster."

"Still nothing from the Eyrie though? Or the Waynwoods?"

It seemed Sansa's aunt Lysa had picked the worst time to die, events in the Vale seeming as mysterious as the politics of Asshai for all it mattered to them on the other end of the continent.

"Nothing," Edric replied, troubled because she was troubled. "It could be just the snows though, you've told me how treacherous the Eyrie is in winter."

"I still don't like it, the Waynwoods should have declared along with the Royces, they're not waylaid by the high mountain passes."

"And nothing from Storm's End either," Edric sighed. "Princess Daenerys and Lancel Lannister have enough to worry about in their own kingdom, we can't have them paralyzed by their northern and eastern fronts. They need to meet us in the Reach, we can't defeat all the Tyrells and Tarly's and Hightowers with just Dorne and the smaller half of the Stormlands."

The Queen turned her head away from the desk to look at him. Under the dim glow of the candle against her auburn hair, it was easy to see her as just a beautiful woman he was becoming more and more besotted with, whom he imagined and dared hope felt the same way for him, rather than a Queen planning every stroke of a great war which would see thousands dead, and more houses to follow the fate of the Martells.

_Would her next murders be committed under your roof again, will they share salt and mead and hearth with your good name?_

She brushed away his misgivings with her voice, so soft and vulnerable and...relenting. "I've given thought about what you said, regarding the mercenaries."

"You have?"

Sansa hadn't liked the idea at first. Her adversaries the last war had used foreign invaders, and she did not like the idea of calling them to her side, not after rallying the country against them almost seven years before.

"It has to be the Unsullied," she replied. "I don't like the idea of buying slaves, but they won't rape or reap, not like the others. We'll use them only to defend Dorne, and the passes between here and the Reach."

"I understand," Edric said, standing and placing his hand gently upon her shoulder, to show that he would not gloat, now that she'd agreed with him in this one small piece of the war. "I'll write the Lady Ellaria, ask her to use some of the gold to buy a company of two thousand. That should be enough to keep Tarly back, enough to give us fair warning, without overwhelming the land with foreigners."

It would be a risky maneuver, an invasion of Dorne from somewhere between Horn Hill and Highgarden, though exactly one Edric had to anticipate from a dangerous foe such as Randyll Tarly. A two pronged invasion, the other half coming from the King and Connington's armies in the Stormlands, would make sense on paper, except the western half of that invasion would be capable of taking only Starfall and the lands of the Torentine, with a second range of mountains separating the would be conquerors from any invaders marching south through Prince's Pass. Though their enemies still had the numbers, Edric felt good about a defensive war waged through the mountains, but he'd feel even better about an Unsullied army to preempt any risk of ignominy from having the enemy occupy both his home and the current seat of the Queen's court, should they commit themselves to a northern offensive.

The Queen yawned, stretching her arms outward, and Edric walked around the room, blowing out each candle except for the one he carried in his hand. They both fell upon the bed the same time, and Sansa rolled easily into his arms. Were this even a fortnight or two ago, they'd be upon each other instantly, ready for yet another round of lovemaking, but though his body stood ready and willing, Edric was also perfectly content to feel the pangs of slumber overtaking the both of them early. Briefly, his thoughts turned to the only other woman he'd been close to, sleeping somewhere in another castle, one he hoped he would not have to besiege in the coming war, though Edric knew better than to hope further.

Beside him, soft snoring sounds already began to emerge from the nostrils of his lover, one graceful royal cheek nestled against his chest. Her snores were not intrusive, but gentle, even melodic, and Edric gave thanks for these nights when Sansa did not need to cry before she fell into whatever nightmares which still plagued her at night, that he still lay helpless to prevent.

* * *

**Rhaegar**

It was strange that, though he rode to war this time in a wheelhouse, the King of Westeros savored the ride south, the views of the dense forest given way to barren hills and dry leaves of grasses, the sounds of trumpets and footsteps and chants, the songs of soldiers singing and knights admonishing filling his ears with...contentment? Purpose?

The ride to the Trident atop his steed had been so different, his heart ached with pain, concern for what was to come, the ordeals of both the rebels and his father tearing through either flank of him with equal agony, and of course the fear, of Lyanna, how she'd screamed at him before Ser Arthur took her. Even as he donned his armor that fateful morning, his thoughts remained with Lyanna, and Rhaegar prayed that though they parted further and further with every passing minute, in distance as well as heart and mind, that his soul may remain with her, that her heart would return to him, and she would see reason, once the battle was won, the rebels defeated, Ned Stark pardoned, and his father compelled into abdication. Then, all would be well.

He would be equally forgiving this time. Sansa Stark would survive, because he doubted his wife would have any inclination towards leading what little armies she could gather in person. Then he could forgive her and, her little adventure complete, she would return to the capital with him, do her duty, give him the third head of the dragon, and all would be well. Her supporters would be forgiven too, for her sake, so long as they bent the knee, though there were these disturbing whispers about this boy lord of Starfall, Ser Arthur's nephew...

_How dare he touch her, Arthur would roll over in the dirt in shame, Sansa Stark is mine, she's my wife, my Queen, I'll have lions tear him limb from limb, and she'll watch it happen, that'll teach her to ever touch another again..._

His sister too, who'd joined his wife in this misguided rebellion, for what possible reason, it befuddled Rhaegar. Hadn't he given her the best life possible, hadn't he spent over a decade in exile raising her as his own daughter, even putting off the war against Ned Stark until he'd been satisfied that Dany was grown and able? By the Gods, he'd given her Casterly Rock, Tywin Lannister's former seat, the greatest prize in all Seven Kingdoms! But Randyll Tarly was right, women were fickle creatures, but so quickly did Dany's sympathies lie with the girl now, so quickly could they again change, once they could speak, and meet eyes, and Rhaegar could remind her of all that he'd done for her.

_Like you would've reasoned with father to give up his crown, after the Trident?_

Certainly this was not the first time Targaryens have gone to war against each other. The dragons were dead, gone, which for once was a good thing, because it made possible their future forgiveness, and kindness, and generosity, without the scars of the torrid fire scorching the land and hardening their hearts against each other for all eternity, through death and life. Daenerys would beg for his forgiveness, just as Viserys had, it would happen, because it was _meant_ to happen, and he would not rest until it _did_ happen, because a King simply _could not_ rest until his own house, his family, lay at peace.

"Hurrah, we have a new Lord of the Eyrie," Connington pronounced happily, breaking through his contemplation.

"Robin Arryn died?" He would never celebrate the death of a child, especially one who could have been pushed unwillingly into treason by his unreliable relations, but it was would be a convenience all the same, and fighting his third and last war, Rhaegar knew that he could afford to spurn no advantages out of the softness of his heart.

"Soon enough, maybe," Connington grunted, as they came to a stop for the evening, just before the sun set early. Harvest Hall they would reach by afternoon of the next day, alas House Selmy was the only marcher house who'd remained loyal with Beric Dondarrion's treason. "But all the praises to Lord Harry Hardyng...apologies, Harry _Arryn_, he's agreed to act on behalf of his true King, Tarly says he'll wait for the Royces to march west, then storm the Bloody Gate."

"What will happen to the boy then?"

Connington shrugged, placing the letter from his Hand inside his waistcoat. "The new heir can't let the old one live, unless we give him some kind of out. If it's mercy you'd wish, then...mayhaps we make him join the Faith, hells appoint him the next High Septon, that'll knock out two sparrows with one rock."

Rhaegar chuckled, he could appreciate the joke, and he could not be more than thankful for the man who'd stood by him for so long.

"Mercy it will be, it must," he said, his voice soft, as gentle as he could make it. "Thank you Griff. It's been a long life for you and I. We've had our good days, and bad."

"Aye," Connington replied, averting his eyes as they helped him out the wheelhouse and into a chair which had been placed by the fire they would set for the night. "I remember it, when you came with me to Griffin's Roost. I'll never forget that day." Nearby, the servants prepared their supper, roast grouse, the meat lean and stringy, he'd guess, based on their meals in the days past, yet Rhaegar savored it, because it reminded him of the _before_, when there'd been a _purpose_ to his life, one where he was not left sitting to watch others carry out that purpose in his name.

Jon Connington loved him, _truly_ loved him, he'd always known this. He could never love the man back, not as Griff would like, but nevertheless the Lord of Griffin's Roost never abandoned him, never betrayed him. Rhaegar could not even say the same for his own siblings.

"This war," Rhaegar began, "it will be no easy thing."

They'd passed the crossroad for the path to Summerhall the previous morning, and it took every fiber of his will for him to not order their march diverted, so that he could pay his respects to the ruins which had claimed the lives of so many of his family, on the day he'd been born. But the Selmy's were the only marcher house who'd declared for him, and Connington did not want to tread too deep into the marches until they'd gathered enough banners, especially onex who knew well of the terrain they'd meet their enemy upon.

Not everything was so discouraging though. The Swanns had joined neither side of the war yet, which meant only one thing.

_"They want something from us," Connington guessed at._

So a rider had been sent, to offer a pardon to the Lord of Stonehelm for his wayward son, Ser Balon, who'd been complicit with the Queen in treason. Though the Selmy name carried further because of the songs of the great and tragic Barristan the Bold, it was the Swanns who held within their control possibly the second most powerful army in all the marches.

"No war is," Griff muttered quietly, his eyes lost in their own tragic past. "I know that now, better than most."

"I'm sorry too," Rhaegar continued. The war may truly begin any day now, even before dawn broke, and it was best that what needed to be said would be said by then. "I've run you ragged since our return. You've seen Griffin's Roost but once, after the tourney at Highgarden?"

The old man Griff nodded sadly, regretfully. "There'll be time enough, once all the damned work's done." He took a swig of his ale. Rhaegar had never liked the nectar of soldiers before, even less since the Trident. "I'm sorry too. About Ser Lewyn. He was a loyal man, a man of honor. He stood with us, until that night."

"I wish he could have lived to see the world that's to come," Rhaegar thought out loud. "The Great War...it can only mean a greater peace afterwards. That's what we fight for, Griff. Not war, but peace. Always peace."

Connington shook his head in agreement. That was what they'd always fought for. Perhaps this was why the war seemed never close to victory, because surely the Gods would not let them pass so easily the most strenuous test known to man. But he would pass it, he alone could pass it, this Rhaegar had known since the day he'd been born.

* * *

**Sansa**

The steps were worn and dusty, and Sansa took care not to slip and fall, though she figured that Arya was not struggling similarly. The narrow stairway circled around endlessly, abutted to the faded stone walls, before disappearing into the nothingness above. It would not just be ghosts she would fear, Sansa thought, were she to find herself in this crumbling tower alone at night, not when a misstep would simply add her soul to the ample tally of ghosts already residing within. As they ascended, the Queen imagined that her sister, like herself, was thinking of those who'd climbed these steps before them, all of them dead now. Behind Arya trailed Edric, respectfully giving them their distance, sensing the weight of their pilgrimage, though his famed uncle had also met his end by the tower as well, though further down in the small saddle below its gates.

"Aunt Lyanna died here," Sansa almost proclaimed, observing the barren stone walls grazing the empty room. Father had described it as sparsely furnished then, and surely bandits or even the nearby villagers had stripped from the chambers all that was salvageable over the years, no sentimentality they felt for dead Starks out of place by the boundaries of Dorne and the Stormlands.

"Jon was born here," Arya replied, as Edric made his entrance quietly into the doorway behind them.

They both imagined the sound of a crying child, the cries of a dying mother, and the agony and despair of a man, a soldier, soon to be a great King, yet helpless to protect his most beloved sister.

"We'll see him again," Sansa promised, wanting to please her sister, "once we win the war. I'll release him from his vows too, if that's his wish."

_Though it'd be mighty convenient for me were he to take a strong liking to Castle Black._

"Do you think she can see us, hear us," Arya wondered, "right now?"

"Her ghost?"

Her sister nodded grimly.

"I think..."

_I don't believe in ghosts anymore. Except I believe in them more than I do the Gods of Riverrun, of our mother and grandpapa._

"...I don't think she'd be stuck here," Sansa finally replied after a long pause. "Father and Robb would've dragged her out by now, to wherever they are. They'd all be together, I'd think..."

"Which means we're the ones who are stuck here," her sister finished for her, with a chuckle that was not at all joyous.

They'd ridden past this tower several times before, and it had been easy for Sansa to avoid approaching even the base of the hill supporting the structure. This was a history she would rather not visit, not after her last so-called marriage.

_What kind of joy was Rhaegar thinking of when he named this tower? The joy of raping maidens, the joy of abandoning his wife and children?_

Standing in this room, it forced her to confront the conflicting truths she'd been told, the possibility that it had been her father who'd lied to her. And what if Lyanna did love the man, and ran away willingly with him, splitting the seven kingdoms asunder in her wake. She'd been young, hadn't she, didn't Sansa make her own mistakes with Lancel Lannister, out of all people, when she'd been the same age? What did that mean then, if Rhaegar had been telling the truth? Had Lyanna been fooled, or had there indeed been something to the man which had captivated her aunt's heart? Lyanna Stark hadn't been alone either, because didn't all the maidens and more than half the wives and spinsters of all of Westeros covet the man she'd been _lucky_ enough to marry? Was it just the looks he'd once possessed, his skills with his sword, his title? Or had there been some innate sense of honor and nobility in Rhaegar Targaryen once, before they'd all been washed away by the waters of the Trident, his sins, his exile, his undeniably accursed blood?

Having taken leave of their ghosts, and his own, Sansa watched as Edric wander from one wall to another, gazing out the windows to undoubtedly study the surrounding terrain through their uniquely high vantage point.

"Any sign of Lord Beric's armies?"

Edric shook his head. "On a clear day, we should even be able to see fires burning as far as Nightsong. We'll know if they're coming."

"If it's from somewhere west like Nightsong, it'll be the enemy." Arya had been studying her maps as well.

"The Unsullied are already positioned north of Blackmont, I know that ridge, it'll hold, long enough for them to send a rider and warn us. We may see the fires from the Manwoody and Fowler hosts by nightfall, and we're close enough here to divert enough men to ward off any invasion from the western edge of Prince's Pass. Anything from Rhaegar, we'll know if he mounts an attack from the marches."

They all knew this, they all knew the plan, and what they _wanted_ their enemies to do. Whether Edric was repeating himself now to assure the two of them, or himself, Sansa could not be sure of. With still more armies marching west from closer to Sunspear, their numbers Edric guessed were about even with the men terrorizing the marches, based on what they'd heard from scouts sent by Beric and Lady Brienne. Of course, joining with their Stormland banners would give them a much better advantage, but they'd still be overwhelmed were Randyll Tarly to bring over the full might of the Reach. For all his talk, for all his knowledge and skill with his sword, the young Lord of Starfall was barely a boy into his maturity, who'd followed but never led an army of his own into battle. Just how well did that bode against enemies who'd already had the skill and cunning to steal seven kingdoms once from her already?

"I thought I knew him, Rhaegar," Sansa whispered quietly to herself. "Yet it surprises me, that he'd ride this far south from the Keep, that he'd march with his men into battle."

"The weaker he is," Arya said knowingly, "the more he'd look to prove his strength."

"A man of pride and sound mind would, yes. But Rhaegar..."

She would've thought he'd succumbed on the march by now, to sickness, to madness...to the predatory gazes of his own soldiers, who knew? But it was an advantage, so she would press it. Sansa felt Edric's strong hands clasping her shoulders, the young man no longer bothering to hide any signs of affection for her, whether in front of their men, or her sister.

"Doesn't matter," he whispered, as Sansa leaned her weight against the surface of his leather plaited armor. "Sound mind or not, he's one man. Sound mind or not, he's a weak man. If he's foolish enough to pursue us, we'll get him. If he dallies in the marches, we'll get him too."

Except they both knew it was easier said than done. They knew, or rather they hoped, that Daenerys Targaryen had begun marching whatever houses she'd been able to muster southwards, but the uncertainty of whether they would make it this far south in time, much less sneak or battle past Tarly's men lying between their respective kingdoms, made an outright attack outside of Dorne, much less in open terrain such as the marches or the plains of the Mander, far too risky. Better to let their enemies bear the burdens of invasion for now, and let their numbers be augmented by the treacherous mountains which had protected Dorne for untold centuries.

And the tower, this particular tower, Sansa did not doubt for one second its significance to the dragon at the head of their enemies. She needed him to be weak, she needed him to be prideful but, of sound mind or not, Sansa realized what she needed more than anything else was Rhaegar to be Rhaegar.

* * *

**Rhaegar**

The same dream echoed through his mind over the last fortnight.

_Three heads of the dragon._

"Damned cowards refuse to meet us in the field," Connington muttered unhappily. "They pick at our rearguard like damned wildlings, killin' stragglers and sentries at night."

"Yet we lose dozens by the day."

"Aye, deserters too," Jon added. They'd taken Blackhaven with ease, though the castle had been already abandoned. The village had burned anyway, along with their granaries, because Beric Dondarrion's treason was not something they could afford to take lightly, though they'd dispersed all the smallfolk before the burning. In hindsight, they should have just burned the castle instead, Rhaegar thought. The raids got worse and more savage after that, and just this morning they'd found Ser Androw Buckler, a young and promising knight out of the Bronzegate, impaled through his abdomen by a stake made out of a freshly cut tree stump, the poor man still alive and agonizingly so...as were the over half dozen men he commanded who'd suffered the same fate.

Yet again the enemy continued eluding them, far gone by the time they'd discovered this newest atrocity. The marches were barren and endless, the winter days too short for long pursuit and fruitless chases. Many of their scouts never returned, and the only constant whispers from the ones that did were that, though it seemed the enemy could pick at them endlessly until they'd given up and retreated to King's Landing, more and more of the marcher armies were actually riding towards Dorne, via the Prince's Pass.

"We need to end this war," Rhaegar said, not for the first time this campaign. It was deplorable, the suffering of the villagers, and young soldiers who'd never get the chance to live out their vows and be remembered by the likes of Ser Arthur and Barristan. "Send word to Tarly, it's time to bring this war to the enemy."

_The enemy. My wife. Who'd ever thought I'd be saying that? Elia. Lyanna. We had our difficulties. But they never would have dared make war against me. Perhaps it's Sansa who's the third dragon, my Visenya, the most difficult dragon to tame._

"Dorne, eh?" Even Connington shook his head doubtfully. "You won't be the first dragon to take his stab there."

"I know my history, Jon," Rhaegar replied impatiently. "I know Dorne too, I've ridden through the passes many times." He paused. Thoughts came to him easier these days. Perhaps it was a product of the war. Frustrating as it was, war was a much simpler thing than politics, all the lies, deceit, shade, and subtleties of court, shameful skills which his newest wife seemingly excelled at. Perhaps that had been why he'd dithered so long in acting against his father, especially allowing himself to be so distracted at Harrenhal, because in his heart Rhaegar knew, at the time at least, that the only thing he dreaded worse than a realm ruled by Aerys II Targaryen was having to rule the poisonous nest himself.

"I've heard word that the marcher lords are gathering south of Vulture's Roost." It hurt him to continue, but he _had_ to continue. "There's a tower there, on the east side of the pass. I know it well. The lands, the terrain..."

_How Ned Stark had been there, and I was not._

"They'll be ready for you," Connington countered with a harsh swig of ale. Rhaegar needed to remind him not to drink so much, once the final day of the great battle came. "The Dornish have their tricks, they fight like women, and the marcher lords are learning them well."

"The Dragon has...," _fuck the red woman, she'd been wrong,_ "_four_ heads," Rhaegar corrected at the last second, but his old friend just looked at him befuddled.

"Pardon me, Your Grace?"

"We make straight for Vulture's Roost, and the tower beyond. The plains are open, so they won't be able to surprise us."

"And Tarly attacks from the east?"

"Two prongs," Rhaegar began, seeing this war as clearly as he'd ever seen anything in his life, as if the second sight of the priestesses had finally and miraculously returned to him. "One from Horn Hill to cross the Torentine north of Blackmont, threatening Starfall, while the Tyrell host marches around Nightsong to converge with us directly by the Tower of Joy."

"Aye," Griff agreed, the traces of a smile forming behind his red and unkempt beard. "Pin 'em, an' cut them off from running back down Prince's Pass."

"We have to move fast," Rhaegar continued, his mind still moving so turbulently that he felt his actual breath catching in his chest. "But they're gathering for a reason, to attack, not to retreat. So we'll give them their war...and..."

Had he felt so invigorated waging war against Robert and his usurpers? Perhaps it never would've come to that duel, had he planned things better then. Picking up his cane, Rhaegar drew from his seat the lines of the familiar roads and castles and terrain onto the sandy surface by the fire, forming one last arc which he knew would be the deathblow to the rebellion.

"The _fourth_ head of the dragon. The Selmy men are small in number, but fierce and bold, as befit their reputation. They'll march down the Boneway and outflank their right. They won't be able to advance, if we besiege them quickly enough, they'll be cut off on both ends."

Instantly, Connington jumped up, the man was a soldier, and he knew orders when given them. Rhaegar could trust that the right messages would be relayed westward. He'd wish for his wife to survive the battle, with any luck Sansa would be situated at the rear, and Rhaegar would give instructions for his rider to pursue her most gently. Then they could turn their attentions back north, to pacify his sister. Then, blessedly, finally, his family whole once more, the King would rest, and watch as the seeds of his hard work finally bear fruit.


	30. The Battle of Joy

**The Hand**

"The King wants us to invade Dorne?"

"Apparently so." Randyll Tarly studied the parchment, written in Connington's scribbled script. Perhaps the idea was Griff's, perhaps Rhaegar's, it did not matter, the two men seemed to speak as one these days.

"Is it the right course," Dickon asked. His son would still be basking in the glow of his nuptials, were it not for damned kings and queens and their wars. Not that Randyll did not expect the king's request, a part of his mind even hoped it, that Rhaegar would be taunted into sending all his armies deep into the claws of Dorne, the one kingdom which had always evaded the claws of conquest throughout its history. That Rhaegar would request the assistance of the Reach, this was not unexpected either, though it would been more preferable had the King and his Griffin chosen to pursue their invasion alone. Apparently neither were that deluded just yet.

"An invasion would be risky, split or combined," Randyll replied.

It wasn't that he did not trust his son. If anything, Randyll hoped to protect Dickon, to keep him away from such paths which threatened to lead an impressionable young man to travel the roads of spiders. That Randyll had to tread them himself, it could not be helped. As Hand to the King, he had seven kingdoms to protect, and a family name to carry down.

"You don't like it," Dickon could read him, easier and easier now. "It's foolishness, isn't it, trying to cross the passes in winter, the smaller ones no less, coming from the Reach."

"If they're defended," he began carefully, knowing that either his son's reputation lay on the line depending on how he worded his response, or his life. Or both. "If they're undefended, then we could certainly force the Queen's armies further south, besiege it in Starfall. It's not an entire kingdom we're trying to subjugate, but one woman. Capture her, or kill her, then the cause dissipates with Queen Sansa."

Well, not exactly. There was still the King's sister to deal with. Somehow the girl had been able to elude the Brax's and Baneforts by convincing old Roland Crakehall the truth of her tales, surrendering even Casterly Rock to take the Ocean Road south. Whatever witchery befell Daenerys Targaryen to start spreading such vicious lies against her own blood, he did not figure the remedy to be easy, or all that palatable to Rhaegar, no matter the King's latest delusions.

"So we march as the King orders then?"

_Not to your death, son._

"The King orders us to march from Horn Hill to Blackmont," Randyll said carefully. "The King orders the Tyrells to march at Prince's Pass. We'll do so, but we cannot neglect our own defenses. This could all be trickery, a way to lure away our defenses in the Reach, in Horn Hill. We lose our guests, and we unleash all the North against us."

"We'll send the scouts then," his son asked him, eagerly awaiting further instruction.

_You need to think man, for yourself. Else you'll always be a follower, never a leader._

But now was not the time to properly instruct his heir of such lessons, not when Randyll found himself ashamed of the dark path tempting him as they spoke.

"I'll tell the Tyrells to send an obligatory force too, scout the passes, test their defenses. If we're successful, then we'll rejoin with Rhaegar, as ordered. But we need caution...you _must_ take caution, Dickon. You know the King, he is..."

"Unwell at times," Dickon agreed. He'd seen little of Rhaegar in his time at the capital, but Randyll had kept his son appraised of the mental state of this latest Targaryen monarch. After all, was it not his responsibility to his heir, after he'd seen to it himself to help bring about the return of the dragon.

_You lied to me, Spider. You didn't tell him he's leagues closer to his father, than the good knight who rode beside Ser Arthur and Barristan the Bold._

"He may change his mind. He may not. But...however loyal we are, and we _are_ loyal...we can't afford to lose our homes, our families, based on the whims of the dragon."

"Understood, father."

Did he now? The Hand pointed to the map, knowing his son needed more specifics in the matter.

"Take six hundred men and ride into the hills. If none stand in your way, send ravens, and we'll follow. If you encounter, if your scouts encounter any resistance, ride back at once to Horn Hill, do you hear? And we'll appraise what needs to be done. I'll send ravens to Highgarden instructing the same."

Sitting by the fire that night, his fingers brushing by the hilt of his ancestral sword Heartsbane, Randyll Tarly came to the full realization of just who he was more willing and fully prepared to sacrifice, between his son and his King. The realization changed nothing.

* * *

**Sansa - 304 AC**

Trumpets blew out just as the sun was setting. Sansa shuddered, they were the trumpets of her men, yet the sound hit her ears a half second before her mind could interpret the sound so that, in that longest and briefest of moments, the Queen despaired that all was lost, that their enemies were about to overcome her, that she'd finally run out of kingdoms to run to. As knights clad in Dornish garb rode triumphantly into the camp, dragging forth the amply armored knights of the Reach in their grasps, Sansa scolded her heart to be less frivolous, less fearful. This was war. Her mind, her constitution needed to be stronger, for surely there were more battles to come, all of them worse than this brief skirmish.

"Huzzah!"

"Hurrah!"

"Long may she reign!"

Picking up the hems of her skirt, the Queen ran towards the main path leading into the camp, craning her head to look for the silver emblazoned armor of the Lord of Starfall. Edric was amongst the last to arrive, and she fought the urge to run up to him, to embrace him, kiss him and thank some set of Gods or another that her protector was alive and safe. Instead, she stood calmly, regally, and awaited her lover to dismount, kneel, and place his lips upon her hand, held out as if bestowing her blessings upon a mere beggar in Flea Bottom.

"How fared the battle, Lord Edric?"

"It went as well as we'd hoped, Your Grace." His eyes were grim, not triumphant, despite the apparently auspicious results. "Our men fled at the sight of the first Tyrell charge, as we'd planned. The enemy pursued, long enough to fall into the very coves we set our ambush for. Most of them are dead."

"Not this one," came a bold, feminine voice belonging to Obara Sand, the eldest of the late Prince Oberyn's bastards. Dismounting her steed, she strode over to a small, pathetic pack of bound prisoners, and brought forth a man with ragged hair but clearly the sharpest armor of the bunch. A swift kick against his back, and the knight knelt before her.

"Ser Garlan Tyrell," Sansa recognized, both from the sigils emblazoned upon his armor, and the man himself, whose cheekbones matched so closely with those of her formerly beloved Loras.

"Your Grace," the older knight muttered unhappily. Enemies at they were, he had not forgotten entirely his courtesies. Lose this rebellion as she may, be condemned a traitor by all the maesters' histories as she may, none could ever honestly deny her title.

"Where is your father," the Queen commanded of her prisoner. "Where are your brothers, which lords accompanied yours from Highgarden, whose banners, how many?"

There was a struggle in the man's eyes, Sansa could tell. After all, Garlan Tyrell had once sworn fealty to her father first, and then herself, before following his father Mace into treason, all of it accumulating evidence of how everything about the House of roses was false, whether their loyalties, their professed friendships, or love for herself, her brother...

"Not here," Garlan replied with a sardonic smile, one which indicated that he was ready to die. Or was he testing her, did he not fear her enough, because he still thought of her as the timid little girl who foolishly loved his brother, who foolishly trusted his sister?

The ride had been a short one from the Tower of Joy, or felt short, at the very least, considering how frequent and strenuous were her marches now. Beric and Lady Brienne both arrived with their hosts shortly after their first camp at the site of Lyanna's death and Jon's beginning. Then they'd heard word from scouts of invaders riding in from every direction. The Unsullied knew their instructions, and they had no choice but to trust the seasoned mercenaries. Edric trusted Beric and Brienne to hold off Rhaegar by the tower, which meant his first inclination, their numbers amplified in the east, was to ride towards Nightsong, and help the Manwoody's and Fowlers ward off the banners marching from Highgarden.

Sansa could have stayed at the Tower, she would've trusted her safety with Brienne and Lord Beric. Edric told her the safest course was to stay too, rather than ride days through uncertain mountain passes where, unlike at the Tower, they did not know where or from whence the enemy would approach. But when Sansa decided she would ride west with him, she thought she saw, if not relief, a sense of joy in that she was choosing to accompany him, whether for herself, or for Edric. The decision was actually easy, not just because of all the bad memories and history the Tower brought, but because the Queen had arrived to a point in her life where she absolutely despised the helpless waiting, where she'd rather ride and _do_ something about her own fate, even if it was to her detriment.

"He won't talk," Obara scoffed, kicking the man in the ribs once again. Her sister had stayed at the Tower, along with Arya. Sansa could only hope that her confidence in them weren't misplaced. They had the numbers, after all, and especially now that they'd fended off the advance from the Reach.

"His men did though," the Sand girl continued. "Mace Tyrell rode straight back to King's Landing after the weddings, to cower and hide in the Keep. Ser Loras remains in Highgarden to man the defenses, while his cripple brother...," Obara shrugs, "I don't know, sits and eats and fucks his new wife weakly like a woman while all the rest of us die?"

The insult was not exactly fair, Willas Tyrell could not help his ailment, and it had been Obara's father who'd crippled him anyhow, dishonorably according to some. It didn't matter though, the defense of Willas Tyrell's name wasn't exactly a priority for herself at this moment.

"We need to march back east in the morning," she said, looking at Edric, who nodded his agreement. "Should we take with us some more men?"

Edric shook his head. "They might try again. And we _want_ them to try again," he emphasized. "Let these mountains eat up more and more of their army."

The Queen nodded, understanding, and her gaze returned to their most highborn captive.

_He has Loras's eyes too. But none of his boldness, Garlan wilts, while Loras flowers._

"Then we need to taunt them into rashness, don't we?"

"Your Grace," Garlan began, "I'm not going to beg for my life, I..."

"Your Grace, have you heard of crucifixion," Obara suddenly asked, interrupting the man's refusal to beg.

"I...," Sansa stuttered, the strange word having been uttered at some point in her studies as a child. "It's...it's from Slaver's Bay, isn't it? Something painful?"

"They nail you to a post or a cross," Obara continued gleefully, cruel orbs gazing down at their prisoner as she described the gruesome ordeal. "Sometimes it takes several fortnights for the condemned to die."

They all looked at their prisoner, who shirked, yet remained too proud to protest on his own behalf towards such a cruel fate. It was tempting, but Sansa shook her head. She didn't care how Garlan Tyrell died, only that it served her purpose, so there was no need in making it painful for no good reason.

"We wage our war for the Faith of the Andals," she explained calmly, "and against the barbaric practices of the east. We will not adopt their customs." But then she allowed a light grin upon her lips to the Sand girl. "We'll not waste it, not until we have a more deserving prisoner." The bastard girls liked blood and pain, so she'd allow them one day, there were plenty enemies for them to torment as they would.

"And for Ser Garlan," Edric asked. There was no doubt in his eyes, but Sansa knew him well enough, even as he readied his sword for the execution. Edric did not want to kill the man, he would take no glee in the murder, but he would do it for her, if asked. After all, what was the execution of one prisoner, after breaking guest rights with the Martells?

But there was no need to waste his capacity for murder either. Instead, she turned back to Obara. She needed to keep her newest allies happy after all.

"Do try to make it not too slow," Sansa allowed. "And keep his face recognizable, we want them to know who he is when we send the body back to Highgarden." Though it was to the girl to whom she spoke, the Queen kept Garlan Tyrell's face within the corner of her eye, observing his reaction, resigned and, yes, fearful, upon the hearing of her final sentence.

And deep inside her soul, a small, or perhaps not so small part of herself savored the reaction, it savored the fact that she was truly the Queen, and could act as such...that she had the _power_, to save or condemn, that the most powerful lords and knights of the realm, who could cut her to pieces and do worse to her were she just a helpless girl with no name, would now tremble at her feet, would die or live, would suffer, were she to say but one word.

* * *

The march commenced at dawn. Of their two dozen or so prisoners, they killed the ones whose wounds were already beyond saving, and sent the rest to accompany their fallen lord back to Highgarden so as to ensure the message was received. Then, exhausted as they all were, from Queen to Lord, from Sand Snake to Sand, they rode as quickly as they could back the path they'd followed, reaching the eastern edge of Prince's Pass by dusk. A fog descended into their camp that night, settling after the sun had set, a rare occurrence, Edric said, in the Red Mountains.

"Do you ever think about us," she asked him, lying atop the young man in their shared cot. His chest made for a good pillow, she'd long ago decided. Even when they'd met again, when they saved her from Boros Blount's sword, he'd seemed too much a boy still, when she'd claimed and taken him for herself, in order to save herself. But the constant exercise since seemed to do wonders for his body, his shoulders and chest growing and widened, feeling stronger in her grasp than what Sansa remembered of Trystane...or was that just her memory failing her? Had it been but a year since their last parting, when Rhaegar and his Spider confronted them with the truth? How much of it did she still remember, Ser Lewyn marching Trystane away, did she know then, deep down within her heart that, no matter what the assurances of Rhaegar and his Spider, that she would never again gaze into the eyes of the man she loved?

"What do you mean," Edric whispered. "I think of us, yes. How we have a war to win, how to keep our skins alive until we win it." Their victory, the sight of the blood, the rush of power from ordering and watching Garlan Tyrell's execution carried out had left her absolutely ravenous by the time she'd entered their tent the previous night. But Edric was drained from the battle, Sansa could tell, so she did not push things. Tonight, it had been quick, but hardly satisfying, for her at least.

"It's funny, isn't it?" As she spoke, she watched her breath move imperceptibly the few translucent hairs upon his bare chest. "Our parents, neither one of us have them anymore."

"No, we don't." He spoke with an edge, and Sansa could tell that this was not a comfortable conversation for him.

"They say my father loved your aunt," Sansa continued, even as Edric closed his eyes, as if feigning sleep to avoid further conversing the subject with her. "They say that...she jumped from the tower, because of my father. Because of Ser Arthur. Or maybe it was because my father was already married by then, and she knew he'd remain true to his vows. But...this...history, between our families...it must have been powerful. The love. Because...only love so powerful...would have the power to _destroy_."

Edric was her lover, a good one, a man with whom she felt more inseparable from by the day. Trystane she'd loved, she'd _truly_ loved, with ever fibre of her soul. Could she ever love Edric the same way, knowing how it had been love which destroyed Trystane? Was it better, that she held back her heart, enjoyed his company, his comforting presence, his armies and name, without truly giving herself to him, as she'd done for Trystane? Trystane had died for her. Edric would too, Sansa knew, but would it be for love, or for duty? She would have died for Trystane no doubt, she'd tried dying the best she could afterwards. Would she die for Edric now? Or would she let him die for her, and grieve, because her heart would grieve, Sansa knew, but then move on, just as she'd done with Trystane?

"My father said little about...the history," Edric whispered warily, reopening his eyes. Sansa continued stroking his chest and side, to beg him continue and reveal the deepest pockets of his heart to her. "All he said was that Ned...King Eddard, sorry, was a good man...that he was a man of honor, that he honored Ser Arthur's name and legacy. About my aunt Ashara...he never said a word."

"I wouldn't have dared ask about her," Sansa said shyly. "Mother would've had my head, and I would've never lived to be Queen."

She closed her eyes, and nudged her face deep into his skin. Soon there would be another battle, as early as the morning, and having lain her neck at death's door once before, Sansa knew to savor what she could about the joys in this life.

"Do you miss them?"

"I do," Sansa answered. "Do you?"

"More than anything," Edric swore, with an intensity she'd rarely heard from him.

"Maybe that's why we understand each other," she heard herself saying, "because we both understand what it means to be alone...truly alone in this world."

They lay quietly, peacefully, and Sansa would have thought herself and Edric both asleep, when she heard him whisper to her. "We have each other."

"We do." She could not help but smile, saying the words. "If they could see us now, what would they think of us? Do you think they'd be happy, that we'd found each other?"

_Would we have found each other, ever? Would my father or my mother have allowed it? Would yours, not forgiving the grudges of the past wars? Could both of us have lived our lives, separately, perhaps even happily, not knowing what we could have found with each other?_

_Is it worth it, for us to find each other, after losing everything else?_

_Would Trystane be happy for me, or would he curse us both, for so many reasons?_

"I think," Edric finally answered, his voice less drowsy than before, "that my father would be proud of me. For serving my Queen, for doing my duty."

He was holding back now. But again, so was she. And it was for the best.

"Rhaegar's coming," Sansa whispered. Instinctively, she clutched his body tighter between her arm and fingers. If she couldn't think pleasant thoughts, then there was nothing holding her back from her worst nightmares.

"We'll beat him," Edric whispered confidently. "We'll win."

"I trust we will," she answered, careful not to insult his pride, his faith in himself, in their cause. "But if we don't..."

"Ride to Starfall," Edric said, his voice firm and protective. "My men will remain loyal to you. Take a ship to Sunspear, the Lady Ellaria..."

"I won't run anymore," Sansa interrupted, feeling his chin turning to look at her by the roof of her head. "I won't be captured either."

"What do you mean," Edric asked cautiously, fully roused from his slumber now, and Sansa regretted that she would pull him from his rest, in what could be the last night of both their lives.

"Just that," she answered firmly. "I'll do what I have to do. If it happens...and if you live...I don't want you to bemoan me. Or think it's your fault. This is war, I know it, nothing's certain, nothing's sure. I worried about you yesterday, when you rode into battle. I'll worry about you, when the next battle comes. If the battle's lost, and you die...well, it's over for all of us anyway. But if the battle's lost, and you somehow survive...understand that whatever I choose...that it's _my_ choice. Fight your fight, or run, or make peace...but know that, whatever I did, whatever I'd do...that it's nothing against you, that I'd go to my grave thankful for you, thankful for the time we had together. That if I die...I'll die a happy woman, because of you."

She felt his grip tighten against her in turn.

"I understand," Edric replied solemnly, more like a knight addressing his charge as a man whispering to his lover. He did not fight her further.

But did she want him to?

* * *

**Rhaegar**

"We've taken the hill."

It wasn't just any hill, Rhaegar thought, as they carried his wheelhouse up to join the vanguard of their army. It was funny, while he'd always felt a sense of fondness for this particular place, it had been nothing more than another landmark for him, to mark his journey during those frequent rides through Prince's Pass, in those days while his father still lived. There was always something special to the place, a power he'd sensed then, but how does one man place or measure an abstract feeling that he could not press his finger upon. Surely the vast and barren hills, the rolling landscape, the monolithic tower itself, all of these possessed their aesthetic, their own poetic qualities that his soul could imperceptibly recognize. How was he to know that by naming it, he was cursing the place, that the indiscernible feeling which gnawed at the back of his neck at the time he ought to have recognized as a harbinger of doom, rather than an understanding of beauty?

"They gave it up damned easily," Donnel Swann said, a young knight who led the men of Stonehelm after his father had agreed to rally his banners in exchange for a pardon for his disgraced whitecloak son. "I know Beric and Bryce Caron, neither are the ones to retreat so happily."

"We surprised them with our charge," Connington replied. "Though you're right, Lord Donnel, we should exercise caution. The day is early, and the battle is far from won."

Surely both sides expected battle this day. Their camp the last night had been within view of the tower, and only a blind and deaf idiot would have failed to notice their advance. Surprise was their only way at an advantage, along with a thick fog which had settled during the night, so Griff had roused the men hours before dawn, finishing the march and charging up the hill while the morning's fog still sank low upon the ground, and the dawn had yet to overpower the night behind the eerie winter mists.

"We need to press our advantage," Donnel said. "They're in disarray now. Pursue them, and we'll destroy this rebellion before midday."

He was a smaller man than his younger brother Balon, but Rhaegar thought his movements were quicker and more elegant. He'd call Donnel Swann into the Kingsguard, if the young lord was not already the last male heir of his father. Changes needed to be made, Rhaegar recognized since leaving the capital, once the war was over. He needed younger minds and more vigorous opinions on his Small Council, youths of talent who could think differently than old men such as he, and Connington, because the Great War was not a war which could be won solely by the elderly. His children still had years before they could come of age and take the grasps of the kingdom from himself, and he needed to ensure that their counsel would be wise and full of experience by then.

"Can't see damned nothing through the fog," Griff said, one weary palm held over his eyes, counselling caution for once. Indeed, though Rhaegar sat within a minute's walk on foot from the tower, he could barely see the stone escarpment through his clear eyes.

"It's lifting," the heir to Stonehelm remarked, riding his steed back and forth impatiently, and Rhaegar noticed a similar restlessness in his men. Soldiers did not like being blinded, this he knew from long experience. But the enemy was just as blinded as well.

"The Semly host is the key," Rhaegar said. "They've had the longer march through the Boneway. We need them to hit the enemy today, before they can escape back deeper into Dorne."

"We've slowed our damned march plenty for them to catch up," Connington grumbled.

"They're good soldiers," Donnel remarked. "I trust they'll be here, not even the fog can stop them..."

As if the very timing of it was divine, they heard trumpets blare from the valley below, singing the songs of Harvest Hall as the first clangs of metal and screams of panic and pain echoed up the hill. Their reinforcements had arrived, the enemy flank had been engaged, and now all they awaited was one final order for the battle to be won.

"Connington," Rhaegar ordered, looking his friend in the eye during this moment which they'd awaited all their lives, the chance to win a battle, win a war, and thus prove the favors the Gods held upon their great enterprise. "Lead the charge against the enemy center."

"Aye, Your Grace."

"And Lord Donnel?"

"Your Grace?"

The boy needed to learn many things, patience amongst them. As his King Rhaegar would guide him, and teach him.

"Stay with your men by the tower, in the reserves. Let Griff get this one under his belt, he needs it."

The boy was not happy about the order, but he obeyed it anyway, riding into the mist to inform his men while eyeing enviously the rest of their army as they readied their final, lethal charge.

* * *

**Edric**

The fog had grown ever thicker the next morning. They'd expected to reach the Tower of Joy by the time the sun reached its peak that day. The sun's position they could not tell, but merely hours after leaving camp they heard in the distance screaming and shouting from afar, and from the direction they were riding towards.

"The battle's begun," Sansa shouted at him, astride upon her horse, still clad in thick golden layers of Dornish robes, completely vulnerable to the poorest shot of arrows.

"Fuck," Edric swore, "we're too late."

Without another word, Edric pulled out his sword and kicked at his horse, trying to will the entire army behind him to ride as fast as they could through the blindness of the fog, with only the clamor of war guiding their senses. As the fog began to lift, he recognized a small ravine marking the path leading up the hill from the south, where their reserves should have positioned themselves during the initial retreat. But the landscape was barren, abandoned. Then came one man dressed in Dornish armor, then another, all running in their direction.

"What's happened," he screamed out, grabbing one panicked deserter by his hair, wrenching his head backwards until the coward came to a stop, and recognized whom he was standing before.

"They ambushed us, my Lord!"

"How, where? Did you not see them coming?"

"The fog," the man screamed. "They came from the east, from Vulture's Pass!"

_Vulture's Pass!_ Fuck, how could he have not anticipated that?

"What's Vulture's Pass," Sansa asked next to him, carefully masking the growing fear in her voice.

"It's a narrow mountain road," Edric explained, trying to balance his sense of urgency with the shame in his failure, "coming from the Boneway. I wouldn't have thought Rhaegar would have led an entire army through there, but one small host..."

Their initial plan had been sound, whether or not Edric and his men returned to the Tower of Joy in time, because Beric and Brienne had enough numbers between their Stormlanders and Dornishmen who'd remained. They'd anticipated that Rhaegar would charge the hill, so a southward retreat was already premeditated, to freely give the enemy the high ground, knowing that they would shortly abandon it for the sake of pursuit, to turn a small defeat into a rout. That was why Beric hid his men behind a small knoll southwest of the tower hill, and when Rhaegar's men began their charge downhill, his old mentor would have led the charge at their right flank, breaking their momentum and, with any hope, crushing through their center while Brienne would rally the same men who'd just feinted retreat to reverse direction and complete the rout.

They had enough men to carry out such a plan, but if the enemy had penetrated and pierced their right flank from Vulture's Pass, sneaking in through in the misty morning, then both the bulk of Brienne's command as well as Beric's reserve on their left would have been forced to pivot right and face the ambush, leaving their flanks vulnerable in turn from a counterattack downhill from the tower.

"Men," Obara cried behind him, "no man is allowed to run, I'll gut you myself."

"We ride," Edric cried out, rearing his horse to give his men at least some semblance of a rallying cry before charging into battle. "We fight, we kill. The first men I order you to kill are any deserters from the battle. We will fight for our Queen, we will win, or we will die!"

This was the moment, would the men rally, and heed the orders of a boy six and ten? Or would they wilt, and run, and doom them all? He heard encouraging cries through the bitter air.

"We've already shown the Tyrells what we're made of," he continued, hearkened by his response. "We showed them what happens to enemies of Dorne, when they invade our homelands. Well, there's more invaders up there," he pointed towards the unseen hill. "Will we show them what we're made of? Will our ancestors, who braved the cries of the dragons themselves, look down at us in shame, or in pride?"

By now Sansa had turned her horse so that she stood next to him. Edric turned his head towards her, to see if the Queen wished to speak her own words before the battle, but Sansa only nodded, signaling him to finish.

"The men who are fighting now need you! The enemy has made their move! They have the advantage now, but they're vulnerable, because they don't know we're here, because they're not expecting us! Will you abandon our brothers in arms, will you abandon your Prince, your Queen? Or will you fight, and show them what mettle we're made of?"

The screams they received were raucous enough. Edric had never given a speech before. He may never give a speech again. So be it, this one would do well enough for now, he couldn't turn back time and say anything different. As he pivoted back into the direction of battle, feeling the weight of the gallops and footsteps behind him, Edric felt a slight tug upon his wrist. It was Sansa.

"Don't die, please. I need you, stay alive for me."

"You stay alive too," Edric said dumbly, nodding his acknowledgement of his duty in the coming battle and beyond, before riding off.

The cavalry led the charge, Edric at its head, and he plunged himself into the heart of the battle, slashing at any armor or sigil he didn't recognize as marcher or Dornish. Even as he struck again and again, even as his horse found itself caught in the whirlpool of mud and bodies, he craned his neck eastwards, to where his center should have been. The banners of Tarth and other Stormlords were closer than he would've hoped, and he saw Selmy banners beyond, men he knew to be the enemy, which meant their positions had been too forcibly condensed already.

_Just how bad of a rout is this_, Edric screamed in his mind, as more and more of his horsemen swooped into the battle. Fortunately, the once attacking enemy now found themselves caught on both sides, and hearing the screams and horns of their arrival, his own beleaguered men began to rally. In one corner of his eye he saw a flaming sword, cutting down one man after another.

"Thoros!"

"About time you came, boy," came the scream across the battlefield.

His new arrivals fully engaged in the battle, Edric pulled the reins of his horse, retreating from the densest of the fighting. If Brienne and Beric were still alive, they were in no place to survey the battle as a whole, so command was his, for the moment. Riding towards the rear, he screamed at each arriving line of reinforcements, now mostly infantry having caught up with the horsemen. Edric waved them forward, screaming his orders and pointing them towards whatever weaknesses or gaps he could see from atop his horse.

More horns echoed from atop the hill. The base of the tower was finally visible through the fog, and Edric saw yet another wave of enemy soldiers running down from the direction of the tower on foot. Just how many more men Rhaegar had in reserve, he could not tell. His men were not being used to their maximum effect, which left them helpless to counter all the numbers Rhaegar had to throw at them. One side would bleed out, or the other, and the battle would be thus decided, strategy or brilliant plans be damned. But such was war, and he had no choice but to order his men to continue fighting and dying, even if they were in fact doomed.

"Infantry," he screamed, grabbing the attentions of his arriving reserves. "To the hill, fend off the charge." His eyes scanning the field, he saw a line of about a hundred archers, whose arrows sat fresh in their bags, useless after arriving to a battle already devolved into a chaotic melee. "Archers," he ordered. "Loose as many rounds uphill as you can, before they meet our men!"

With that, he set his sights at the tower and buckled his mount up the hill to meet the newest charge, having done all he could from the rear.

* * *

**Rhaegar**

"Where did those reserves come from," the King swore angrily. The battle had been going so well, until a swell of men emerged seemingly from the mists itself, now pouring into the messy mud below, turning what was looking to be a victory into something closer to a stalemate. Or worse, if his men continued to be surrounded by the new arrivals, and Rhaegar could see with his own eyes the enemy right rallying and turning back on the Selmy's, now that the pressure had been relieved off of them.

He felt one frozen tooth bite against the back of his hand, raised his eyes, and saw tiny flecks of snow falling from the sky.

_Snow in the south. In Dorne. What a sight._

_Lyanna, is this you? Have you finally returned to me? What message do you have to tell me, from the great beyond? Is it about our past, our love, our tragedy? Or the future, the war to come, our great destiny yet faced..._

His seat atop the hill felt a throne, overseeing the battle below. It was fitting. With Connington gone, he alone held the reins of the battle, a King in full control of his reign, his destiny.

"Lord Donnel," he ordered. "Commit your reserves to the battle now, charge the enemy!"

He heard the sound of a sword unsheathed, and awaited this final move which would decide the battle. Most of the Swann men were mounted upon horse. Surely they would decide the battle, now that the enemy had hopefully committed all they had.

Then he continued waiting.

Then more silence, no movement, and Rhaegar turned to look crossly into the direction of the young heir to Stonehelm. What he saw, a single blade pointed in his direction, horrified him.

"Aye, we'll finish the battle now," Donnel Swann replied, gleeful in his treason and betrayal. Immediately he spurned and ordered his men. "We fight for Queen Sansa! Go now, win the battle for our Queen!"

* * *

**Sansa**

It was over. It was all over. What had once been pristine prairie now stood mud, blood, and endless bodies, friends and foes alike, all who'd died for just two people...her and Rhaegar, their deaths to determine who would get the final word in calling the other an usurper.

"Your Grace!"

She recognized the bold voice of Lady Brienne, who looked as bruised and as bloodied as any man upon the field. Next to her stood a smaller woman, _Arya_, to her relief. She'd worried for her sister all battle. She'd worried for Edric too, but at least she'd seen where he'd ridden, forbidding sight as it was. Arya, whether she was already dead, whether she was even fighting in the battle, Sansa had been helplessly blind to, until this moment.

"Lady Brienne. Princess."

"I finally have more kills than you," Arya said, though through her nonchalance Sansa could see the fear, relief, and exhaustion in her eyes. Both women were still panting, same as the men who slowly rose and rallied and gathered themselves, realizing the battle was indeed over.

"Don't brag until you've exceeded the number of whitecloaks I've killed," Sansa said, forcing a grin at her sister through the dim scene. Craning her head to the left, she looked up the hill towards the tower, and saw to her relief a young man with golden hair riding in their direction. Another man stumbled towards them from behind Brienne and Arya, over one body and the next. When he came closer, Sansa saw that Thoros of Myr was dragging both a gigantic gleaming sword of Valyrian steel, along with the limp body of the man who'd stolen it from her father so many years ago.

"He's alive," Thoros said, before hiccuping violently, gesturing at Jon Connington as he dropped the limp form on the ground. "Got knocked up badly in the head, but I don't see no bleedin' from him."

_Gods, did you fight, and survive, this battle drunk out of your mind?_

"Thank you, Ser Thoros," Sansa said, feeling her blood rush at the sight of her father's sword, a rare tangible prize for her in victory. "You have brought before me a traitor and a criminal. The realm will remember your deeds upon this day." She turned, raising her voice to address all who stood within earshot. "The realm will remember you all! You stood up for not just your Queen, not just your home, but for your Faith, against a perfidious and heretical enemy."

As she spoke, Sansa watched Thoros, a former priest of the fire god, shrug and pull out his canteen of wine, both having somehow miraculously survived the battle. He had assured her when they'd first met to say what she wanted about his former religion, that he no longer gave a damn, that he hadn't believed since well before father and Robert Baratheon raised their swords in rebellion.

Cheers rang out, scattered around her, and Sansa felt flush in her face. She'd been as useless in this battle as she'd been during Viserys's siege on King's Landing, yet at the same time Sansa felt more personally accomplished in this victory. After all, though she hadn't raised a sword or shot an arrow, she'd ridden for endless moons with these men, shared their camps, their meals, their wine...even their awful ale, when the wine ran out. Not only did they raise their swords for her, they would not have gathered and swarmed together, were it not for her and Edric's planning. A loss today would have been theirs entirely. But alas, it was the sweetest of victories which now greeted their lips.

"Arya," she addressed her sister. "You know I'm not one to wield a sword. And you've learned to kill better than I now, rather quickly, I believe. Father's sword is yours."

Thoros handed it to Brienne, who handed it to her sister, but not without gazing upon the gigantic blade in wonderment at first. All who gathered watched as Arya unsheathed the massive blade, seemingly taller than her own small frame even as she held the ancient weapon delicately in her small hands. Placing the sword back inside, Sansa watched perplexed as her sister frowned, walking the blade towards her.

"It's too big for me," Arya said simply, her golden Dornish robes colored a deep maroon now from all the stained blood. "I prefer my Needle."

"Well, _I'm_ not going to carry it." Were they going to bicker now, out of all places? In front of everyone who'd just risked their lives in battle for their name? Fortunately, Arya had the answer, so obvious in hindsight.

"Give it to your boy instead," she said with a wink.

Edric had caught up to their small circle. She'd been worried during the battle, watching him ride into an endless wave of enemies. Her breath caught, watching him disappear into the din, and Sansa wondered for a moment how far she would ride, after the battle was lost, before she'd find herself a peaceful and quiet spot in the moors, and take out the small dagger she'd been hiding in her robes. Then came the cries of the men charging downhill at her, and against Edric, she'd thought at first.

_"For Queen Sansa! For Queen Sansa!"_

They'd written the Swanns before leaving the Tower, so they knew of their plan to accompany Rhaegar first, then betray him in battle. But any further detailed correspondence with the lords of Stonehelm had been left to Beric and Brienne. It'd all been forgotten, in her mind at least, by the time they rode into the middle of a losing battle, and besides, Sansa knew better than most how tenuous any professions of loyalty were.

"It will be returned to House Stark one day," the Queen proclaimed, her mind easily decided, "but you may wield it in the meantime. Will you take it, Lord Edric?" He hesitated. "It's not Dawn," she pressed. "Ice is a bit bigger than Dawn, and heavier too. Mayhaps it's a bit too heavy for you, my Lord..."

"It's my pride and privilege to wield in your name," Edric replied. His words were noble, but Sansa stifled back a giggle at his indignant tone, at how his mouth snapped out the words impatiently, just as she'd predicted. Arya exchanged her a knowing grin, then handed Ice to the man who shared her bed, below the tower where her aunt had breathed her last.

First he weighed it in his hands, bouncing the heavy weapon off his palms several times, before buckling it to his belt without even bothering to unsheath the blade. Then Edric's face broke out in a wider grin than she'd ever remembered seeing on him.

"I have a prize for you my Queen, in return." Sansa's eyes widened at the sight of several of marcher knights carrying a weak and limp body down the hill, handling the King as if he were just another common bag of grain.

* * *

They'd suffered bad losses too. By the time the battle was won, Beric Dondarrion lay dead in the middle of the field. Sansa patted Edric's back gently as she washed with a small cloth the dirt and grime off his bare back, the bones of his narrow spine jutting against her fingers through the linen.

"I'm sorry. I know what it feels like...to not have a chance to say goodbye."

"He died doing his duty," Edric replied grimly. Warm water trickled down his back, wetting their cot in place of the tears which he refused to cry for the man who'd raised him to be a man. "Any of us would have been proud to do so."

"That may be true," Sansa conceded. "But I know he'd be proud of you. Not _any_ of us, but _you_."

_Would he though, if he knew about the Martells? _

_I know what my father would think of that._

"And you're not allowed to die," she saw fit to remind him with a forced laugh, "not ever, remember?"

He laughed too, though not a joyful one. "I'm afraid you'll have to send me to Starfall then, to sit out the rest of this war."

Ice stood before them, laid down in the center of their tent. That she'd taken it from their enemies in battle, Sansa felt a certain sense of pride. Had father felt the same way, wielding their ancestral sword through one battle after another, until he found himself sitting on his Iron Throne?

"We should go," Edric said, rising even though she hadn't a chance to clean him below his waist yet. But her young lover grabbed and donned a light vest, and Sansa would be lying if she claimed she didn't look forward to what was to come.

Rhaegar and Connington knelt on both knees in the center of the camp, both their hands bound behind them. The older Lord of Griffin's Roost had been roused awake now, and apparently had not said a word since his capture. Neither had Rhaegar. His legs weak, Sansa smirked at Obara, who held him aloft by only the firmest grip upon the dragon's mane, holding him as her personal beast of burden. Behind her stood her sister Nymeria, while Arya pointed her Needle at the back of Connington's neck.

Her sister yielded the formalities to Obara, seemingly the leader of the Sand Snakes, Arya included. "What's to be done with these traitors, Your Grace?"

Sansa strove to maintain her eyes firmly upon the woman, switching her gaze to her sister, everything except to deign and look upon their two captives, much less address them directly.

"You have sisters still in Starfall," Sansa asked.

"Just Tyene," Obara answered gruffly. "Everyone else returned to Sunspear to help Prince Joffrey rule."

Or more likely, decide upon the fates of any man or woman not sufficiently loyal to their brood and Ellaria, Sansa reckoned.

"I trust the two of you to handle them then, in the meantime. Bring the traitor and the usurper back to Lord Edric's keep. See to it that they get a good beating every night...but," Sansa raised one finger in the air, lest the women get too carried away in their enthusiastic performance of their duties, "try not to break their skin or make them bleed too much."

"I'm guessing you'll be wanting that pleasure for yourself," Nymeria asked, understanding her meaning completely, "Your Grace?"

"Keep them well fed too," Sansa continued, rather than answer the girl's question directly. Taking Edric's hand, she gripped it, and kissed him on the cheek, specifically so that Rhaegar could see it with his own eyes. He blinked, the Queen did not fail to notice, he winced, and hid his hideous purple orbs for several seconds. "When the day does come, I want them fat and plump for the picking."


	31. Dances with Wolves

**The Hand**

Riding was his only relief, it seemed. Not that he had any time to pursue aimless gallops through the countryside, but his men knew his foul and troubled demeanor well enough to not bother him on the marches when he chose to ride at the head of the men, even Dickon, thank the Gods he'd possessed the good sense to ride back to Horn Hill once they'd encountered the Queen's mercenary invaders, unlike the foolhardy Tyrell man. Randyll had nearly slapped the boy Loras himself, his adored new goodson, who had insisted on marching deep into Prince's Pass, and his likely doom, upon hearing of Garlan's death. Fortunately cooler heads had prevailed, the cripple Willas demanding that his younger brother submit to the planning of the Hand on behalf of their captive king...temporarily captive, Randyll assured all of them. Privately, his thoughts had long differed by now.

That Rhaegar and Connington's army of Stormlanders would be tempted into meeting a devastating defeat in Dorne was a possibility that Randyll had reckoned with ever since the King left the capital. A rout would be expected in that case, the loss of an entire army, though the entire business would've been far cleaner had the king not actually survived the battle. Any regency would not be without its challenges, and he did not expect that men like Kevan Lannister or Mace Tyrell would remain content to be complacent and entirely obedient to his leadership in the long run, but so long as the war continued, they needed him in the field, all the realm did.

His problem wasn't the resurgent Dornish army, or even their unexpected marcher lord allies. He'd take care not to repeat Rhaegar's mistake, leaving Dorne in Dorne so long as it was possible. For the Queen to make an invasion north from Prince's Pass so quickly after a triumph would not be unexpected either, but the problem was that his had been depending upon the damned fool Renly to have rallied all the loyal banners in the Stormlands to rebut such an invasion, slow it down at least until Randyll could've taken care of their many other threats. And that was indeed another problem, those _other_ threats, how the King's sister, rather than remain passively in Casterly Rock while spreading her ridiculous rumors, had managed to both evade the armies they'd sent to besiege the Lannister seat, then convince more and more of the houses in the Westerlands, along with her idiot husband, into believing her childishly imagined stories.

In the corner of his eye, he saw a rider whisper into Dickon's ear. His son rode back up to him shortly afterwards. "It's true," the young man said, a gloomy pall cast over his voice. "Old Oak and the Oakhearts have rallied to the rebels, they've given shelter to Princess Daenerys and are marching with her south, against us."

_More than just the Westerlands,_ Randyll thought, shaking his head. House Oakheart would be the first Reach house to rebel, an inauspicious tide he needed to quell at the immediate. "All because Doran Martell held their son, by the Gods, don't they know that we had nothing to do with that?"

It didn't matter, if everyone was rational, then far fewer wars would have broken out through the history of the Seven Kingdoms, much less waged for the crown of a girl who'd merely gotten lucky over the course of a few battles and skirmishes.

"Nothing from Storm's End either," Dickon asked. "I spoke to Ser Loras, he's rather furious..."

"Seems his friend isn't as loyal as we thought he'd be," Randyll said, quelling the nauseating pit in his stomach upon thinking of the true and secret inclinations of Talla's gallant new husband.

"Lord Renly hasn't declared for Queen Sansa either," Dickon said. They both looked back at the procession, the youngest son of Highgarden marching about ten horses behind them.

"No, he's only stood by while she's rallied the Cafferen's and Errols to their cause. Man thinks he's another Tywin Lannister, I'll bet, waiting till a winner emerges before declaring. Except I would've thought Renly knew better, Lord Tywin's not the best example to follow, not unless he has a hankering to go north after this war."

_We'll see if the valiant Loras would be so eager to join his perverse lover at Castle Black._

The problem was that, with the Queen's host marching north, buffered from her losses at the tower by both the already defected Stormlands houses as well as the number of men formerly sworn to Connington who'd surrendered and now marched with her, Randyll could very well find himself outnumbered were the Princess's armies marching south from Old Oak allowed to join with her erstwhile Queen, and that wasn't even counting the further toll on morale inflicted by the news that the damned King had been _captured_ in battle and now sat in a cell in the castle of his once greatest friend, the Sword of the Morning. At least a dead king meant closure for one reign and the crowning of another, but Rhaegar's sorry plight, along with whispers against the damned red priestesses filling even the villages along the Rose Road, massacres of the Sparrows by the townfolk followed by worse retribution in return, it was a surprise that all Seven Kingdoms had not erupted entirely into something more resembling the ruins of Old Valyria by now.

Not that any of this looming and ongoing disaster gave the damned Hightowers any urgency, their marriage with the Redwynes necessary but occurring at the exact wrong moment of the war. His most immediate threat was the approaching armies of the rogue Lannister heir, but he could not march against them confident in his numbers without the Hightowers. He'd had no choice anyway, because the alternative of waiting was worse, and thankfully two thousand men did arrive from Oldtown the night before the march commenced, though this was but half of what he'd expected from Leyton, who'd sent only his son Gunthor along with the host.

Nevertheless they _were_ marching, they were moving, Roland Crakehall was good soldier but not one Randyll particularly feared, especially considering the old was the best Lancel had at his disposal, unless the silver haired Princess had some secret knowledge of war that he knew not of.

"One battle at a time," he heard himself whispering into the wind, though Dickon obviously thought the words wisdom meant for him. It wasn't wrong, he could not afford to think of the battles he had ahead of him, the Queen marching for Highgarden or a lightly guarded Horn Hill, though he was fine if she and the boy Dayne pursued some fruitless siege, it bought him time to crush the Princess and then relieve the castles in turn. In fact he wished they would do so, because the problem was that he'd yet to hear more promising news from further north, it seemed the Brackens and Blackwoods were caught in a stalemate, a particularly harsh set of winter storms preventing either side from rallying enough of the Riverlands houses together for a decisive battle one way or another, and there was the Vale too, damned if he had a clue what was going on there.

The problem was, Randyll decided, wasn't the sheer multitude of the problems he faced, but that it would seem he was the only man in all Seven Kingdoms whom he trusted to do any damned thing about them.

* * *

**Sansa**

Were she still the foolish creature she'd been as a child, Sansa Stark would have cried at the picture roaring before her eyes now, the fires raging and ravaging through all the spectacular roses and tulips and lilies and so many other carefully manicured flowers and bushes and trees guarding the walls of Highgarden. Glee would have been the furthest emotion in that child's mind, yet it was exactly that she felt now, the smoke from the burning gardens creating the strangest fragrances wafting astride her nostrils, as if she took a sadistic joy in destroying the last traces of everything she'd once held dear, that failed Queen who'd gotten everyone she loved in her life betrayed and murdered.

"If I was older and they made me Queen," Arya said, standing solemnly to her side, "I would've burned these gardens just to make you cry."

There was a look of satisfaction to her sister's eyes. Sansa wondered if other may see the same look upon herself, whether Edric saw it, he knew her better than most now, he could read her like few could in her new life. Or even her old, would mother or grandpapa even recognize her this night, much less father and Robb?

"That's cruel," the Queen pretended to chide her sister. "You know I'm not doing this to make Margaery Tyrell cry."

"No," Brienne of Tarth said, "it's strategic. And necessary." The woman from the Sapphire Isle had fought like a beast or a woman possessed during the battle, and if the men didn't respect her before, most who'd had their lives saved by the woman did so now. Edric had always known what she was made of, he'd ridden and patrolled the Kingswood and marches with her for years, and considered her almost as much of a mentor as Beric Dondarrion.

"It is," her lover said to really no one but himself. He'd spoken little of losing Lord Beric since the battle, and Sansa did not press him, because he hadn't pressed her at all on all the horrors that had befallen her in King's Landing. But the Lord of Starfall seemed a changed man since that day, not too drastically, but slightly more withdrawn, quieter, more morose. Sansa could tell herself that it was the finality of the war's commencement that troubled him, all the responsibility placed upon his young shoulders in leading an effort to regain the Iron Throne for a woman who'd been but barely a stranger a year before, but Sansa also knew him well enough to discern that was not the truth, not the whole truth anyway.

The eerie haze from the burning still glowing, the smoky fragrance permeating through the camp like some twisted perfume from the shadowlands of Asshai, they all walked in silence back to their respective tents. Alone, Edric opened the flap and Sansa walked under it first, but she noticed he hesitated at following her inside.

"Is something wrong?"

It was a stupid question, there was plenty wrong, though neither one of them seemed willing to admit it.

"I think I'll go for a ride. I need to clear my head."

Biting her lip, Sansa looked away at her cot, sitting so invitingly in the corner of their makeshift home for the next few nights, so long as the false siege lasted.

"Do what you have to do then."

Perhaps it was the way she looked at him, or the way she spoke, some intangible mannerism which he'd come to recognize knowingly or not, which elicited the response which came next.

"I know it's late," he said uneasily, staring at the ground as he spoke, "but you can come if you want. I wouldn't mind the company."

Without another word she nodded, and donned a heavy dark cloak for the night's ride. Further afield the flames disappeared behind them, and the night overtook the landscape, only the benefit of a clear sky and a full moon guiding their way through the open plains, bare patches of grass and dirt comprising the last remnants of the bountiful harvests of the long summer, long passed into history.

The fires themselves were useless from a tactical perspective, burning only the gardens which sat outside and below the castle walls, the same ones which had sheltered her and so much of the highborn realm during that tourney held a year before the last involuntary purge of her life. Highgarden held few defenders now, but the castle's relative weakness was hardly the point of their so-called siege. They'd seen new arrivals join them from the Stormlands, but not Renly and Shireen's men from Storm's End. Had Sansa recalled at the time the importance of Loras Tyrell to Lady Shireen's former lord regent, she may have held second thoughts on executing his brother. And though it now cost her a powerful army, the lesson was a useful one, to realize the limits to the fealty of her father's Master of Whispers, that his loyalties died when ordered to make war and murder against the man he loved.

Which meant joining with the Westerlands army Daenerys had managed to rally all the more critical to their shared cause. Sansa was impressed by her tenacity, she truly was, by both the woman's faithfulness to a promise made to a stranger, the last they'd seen of each other, as well as her abilities to somehow not just delve into gossip, but then translate it into an actual force of fighting men. The problem was they did not know where the other was, and with Randyll Tarly's massive army looming ominously between them, there was but one way to communicate their position further north, by besieging Highgarden, or pretending to at least, news of such a momentous event sure to spread through the land, intercepted scouts or not. With any luck they could pull the captive king's Hand south as well and in a predictable manner, at which point she and Edric and Arya and Brienne could study the maps and determine how to maneuver around the Lord of Horn Hill and evade battle whilst edging ever closer to Daenerys's Lannister host on the other side of the Mander.

"I'm sorry," Sansa said, as their gallops slowed when the lights of a nearby village appeared upon the horizon, "about Beric. He was a good man, he was loyal, and he saved my life, same as you. I'll see to it that he's remembered, after this war."

"Thank you," Edric whispered quietly, riding ahead with the utmost caution, one hand gripped on Ice as they approached the village. He pointed at a set of banners illuminated by the torchlight bearing the sigils of the Swan, the house of her former Queensguard who'd proven so crucial in the battle, their presence indicating that they'd already driven any hostile soldiers away from the village. Whomever was in charge at the Red Keep had let Balon free, Donnel Swann had assured her after the battle, and the faithful man was riding fast westwards to resume his former duties, not that she particularly needed bodyguards in war, surrounded by Edric and Arya and all their loyal soldiers.

"I'll miss him," he continued, as they rode slowly towards the small bundling of cabins and houses. From its direction they could hear songs sung from what looked to be a small tavern at the edge of the village, smoke billowing out of its chimney.

"I know you will." Sansa wished she could take his hand now, and squeeze it, to assure him that she did care, cared not that she'd lost a lord and an experienced commander of men, but because he'd lost a man beloved and meaningful to him.

"He's a soldier, we all are, dying's not some strange idea to us," Edric began, then the young man hesitated. The fabric of his hood turning away from her, his voice rang out before the cacophony of celebration threatened to drown out his voice. "I...I almost failed you, Sansa, I almost failed us. Vulture's Pass, I never saw it coming."

They'd arrived by the tavern now, and seeing him dismount his horse, Sansa did the same, and Edric tied both their mounts to the small but fully occupied stable.

"It doesn't matter," Sansa said, taking Edric's hands now that they both stepped foot upon the fertile ground. "Sure you can't predict everything, you can't see everything that's coming."

_I know it's not much, but let me comfort you, let me help you. After all you've done for me, it's the least I can do._

"But I _have_ to," Edric nearly yelled, protesting loudly before he lowered his voice again. Lowering the hood further over his head, he continued more carefully. "This is war, I can't afford another mistake like that. It could have cost us everything, it could have _killed_ you, were it not for the Swanns changing their minds. There was no certainty to the whole thing, it was only sheer chance which won us that battle. So what happens next time then, when the roll of the dice doesn't favor us as much?"

"Let it be chance then," Sansa said, answering Edric with a tone far more decisively than she would have expected. She pulled his body closer against her own under the banisters of the building, the bones of his hips ground against her own. The boy soldier stood taller than her by half a head, Sansa thought, he'd grown taller than when he'd rescued her. In the back of her mind, Sansa found it unsettling how she couldn't help but compare every aspect of her newest lover to Trystane, who'd always stood eye to eye and shoulder to shoulder with her.

_Would he have grown taller too, yet another cruel deprivation Rhaegar had robbed from him?_

"I can't. If we lose because I've made another mistake, then I'll have failed you, failed my duty."

As she listened, Sansa realized that in her throat she held back a more terrifying truth, one which Edric had probably understood more deeply than she had until now.

_You're a boy. You're good at war, you know how to lead men, how to wage it...but you're still a boy._ What boy can win a war by himself, can truly master an artform destined to evade most men, though so many strive to master through entire lifetimes, dragons or not?

_Or maybe there's more luck or chance to warfare than most men would admit._

_Would Trystane know how to wage a war like Edric, could he have rallied a kingdom, could he have survived a battle, or won it by his commands?_

She kissed him on the lips, surprising him with her touch. They'd kissed before, but not like this, not tenderly, so as to quell the fire, rather than setting it alight. Rather than biting at his lips, trying to elicit from him a fierce reaction, and draw forth from his body passion, she massaged her lips and tongue slowly against his, almost as if she were whispering to him as their lips met, _because I care for you, because everything will be alright._

"I don't care," she said, slightly out of breath, finally pulling her face from his, though her hands held his waist ever more securely to her. "I meant what I said, before the last battle. If we win this war, we win it together. If we die, we die together. I don't know what songs they'll sing of us after, I'd think they'd be good ones, but I don't care, it doesn't matter. We've defeated and captured a King...a rapist, a criminal...we've proven that wolves don't whimper off and die when cornered.

I want to sit on my throne again Edric, I want to see with my own eyes revenge upon all the traitors, justice deserved and delivered...but I know that wants are as useless as...as a lemoncake on a battlefield. And if I can't get everything I want, then all that matters to me is what we know in our hearts, that...," Sansa stopped, trying to think of the right words to say, "that we died _knowingly_, that we died fighting, that we died on terms we _chose_ for ourselves."

It seemed callous, volunteering Edric for a death which perhaps she'd settled more comfortably upon than he, but Sansa could only rely upon his own words, that he was a soldier, and soldiers were no strangers to the idea of death. A creak from the tavern door startled them, interrupting whatever dark secrets to be further sifted from each other's hearts, and a fat and stubby drunk man stumbled out of the bar, paying them no heed whatsoever as he slumped his way down the path to the adjoining village.

"I think we need a drink," Edric whispered, his face indecipherable to her.

"Are you sure?"

His fingers reached out to pull the hood further over her face, almost hiding it completely, before pointing to a nearby horse whose saddle was emblazoned by the sigil of the swan.

"I think we'll be fine. Besides," he smirked as he ran his fingers over the hilt of Ice, "I've got my new sword, don't I?"

Few paid much attention to the two new arrivals into the tavern at first, giant sword or not. All the guests seemed many hours deep into their revelry by now, allowing the two hooded figures to find an empty table in a corner of the building, one away from a small group of soldiers. Edric tensed, soldiers drinking with the townspeople amidst the lands they are raiding were usually not great combinations, but though they sat separately from the rest of the villagers, there seemed to be little tension between the groups. The men were Stormlanders, which helped, their accents and cultures giving them a lesser impression of acting as foreign invaders, compared to their Dornish brethren.

They'd raided as many grain storages on their march from Prince's Pass into the Reach, bringing their fruits into each village they passed, knights often commanded in taking a full day passing rations to each keep in each of the small towns. Oftentimes the grain probably belonged to the very villages they were being distributed to, but other times, such as all the storages they'd taken outside Highgarden, the foodstuffs had been meant for the enemy armies, which meant an added reward of harming Tarly's men in addition to winning for themselves favor amongst the townsfolk.

There'd been some instances of less than savory activity by their men as well. Sansa would have liked to execute every scoundrel who dared commit trespasses against the townsfolk in the countryside, but they still needed every man they had. The guilty were scourged in front of the villages they wronged, Dornish soldiers by Dornish knights, Stormlanders by Andal knights, so as to not cause enmity between the two camps. One knight, a Santagar, found his title stripped after an accusation of rape by the offended girl's father, whose daughter had been bloodied and beaten as well. But even such a hideous crime had only been punished by the whipping, though a much more severe and brutal one. The only men who had actually been put to death were the ones who'd committed murder, though such trials were hard to prove at times, with the charged on several occasions claiming that they were merely defending themselves against enemy soldiers pretending to be innocent and aggrieved townsfolk.

It was a delicate balance, but all the highest ranking lords from Edric to Brienne to Donnel Swann and Bryce Caron seemed up to the challenge, so their procession through enemy grounds had gone better than other campaigns throughout history, or so Sansa could only hope. Of course, this new war was still as fresh as a newborn babe, and Sansa did not place herself under the illusion that the situation might not worsen, the more brutal and long lasting the war dragged on.

"...aye, an' once Highgarden falls," one of the burlier soldiers exclaimed, trying to impress a plump older barmaid that Sansa would have guessed might already be married, "I'll carry here all th' pigeon pies me arms can handle!"

"Oh," the woman squealed happily, ale spilling from her jug as she refilled his glass, "I've got me four daughters, plenty o'mouths t'feed."

"If yer daughters got tits like yer," a younger man exclaimed, pounding his glass against the table, "I'll buy them all when th' war's over an' I got more gold than prissy Mace Tyrell himself!"

"I trust the brothels are busy," Sansa said quietly, as the barmaid approached them after seeing Edric waving a copper coin in the air, handing and pouring them two glasses of what looked to be an amply disgusting ale.

"Aye," the woman replied, a bit puzzled hearing the voice of a woman, craning her head to see more clearly her new and mysterious customer, "never busier. An' these soldiers," she pointed to the group of Swann men in the table behind them, "have in ther pockits more coin than most, more than what I r'member from th' last war."

"I'm glad," Sansa said. From the corner of her eye, she saw a young knight looking most curiously in her direction. The Queen recognized the man, it was a hedge knight she'd anointed less than a fortnight before. Realizing that their true personages were about to be revealed, Sansa took the putrid glass of ale with both her hands and forced as much of the liquid down her throat as she was capable of. Far from a fine wine, the ale attacked her insides with every ferocity known to the senses, her tongue, her throat, before settling in to burn constantly against her stomach long after her lips had left the brim of the glass.

"Your Grace," the young knight said, eyes widening and sobering.

Edric shrugged and raised an interested eyebrow while she choked for what seemed to be half a minute. Her title emerged as a whisper at first, catching the attention of few, with even the barmaid moving on to the next table, but an older soldier beside him seemed to have heard the words whispered in awe and fear.

"Is...," he slurred, his body rocking back and forth, "is that..."

"The Queen," the young knight answered back, his voice raised, as more of the soldiers at the table paid heed the second time around.

"The Queen," another soldier asked, and Sansa noticed that a nearby table of what appeared to be farmers had also caught on to their whispers. Taking another deep throaty gulp of the ale, managing to hold it down with less trouble this time, Sansa stood, and pulled back her hood, Edric following her direction one second afterwards.

For all the villagers might have known she would've been just a highborn lady out of place, a rare occasion in such a tavern like this, but not unthinkable in the noble dense kingdom of the Reach, she imagined. But all the soldiers recognized her, and instantly they rose from their seats to bend on one knee in varying directions, chaotically bumping into each other as they did so.

"Ser...Jamis," she asked, the name from the anointing still not entirely faded from her mind.

"Aye, Your Grace. I'm flattered, that you'd still remember me humble name..."

"Me...me apologies, Your Grace," another burlier and bearded soldier interrupted, the one who'd been flirting with the barmaid minutes earlier. "I've had much to drink..."

"Lord Donnel has given you permission to come and take a night off the patrol," Sansa questioned the knight who, despite his age, seemed to stand at the head of this small group of men.

"Aye," the young man with long chestnut hair replied, "t'meet the village an' keep the peace, he said."

She looked to Edric, who nodded, indicating that he didn't know any orders contrary to what he'd claimed.

"Good," Sansa answered, standing tall and regally now above the kneeled band of killers. "Then you are doing your duty." Moving her eyes across upon the other men at the table, the unmasked Queen continued. "War is dangerous, one does not take tomorrow for granted. Some time to ease the mind is necessarily, so long as it is not taken to excess, so long as it does not interfere or harm your duties."

"After all," Edric said lightly, raising his glass towards the men, "we're here drinking with you, aren't we?"

Their words seemed to offer the soldiers some sense of ease, and in turn, the rest of the revelers. Feeling a bit more assured towards their safety now, Sansa pulled from within her enveloped cloaks two gold dragons, the coins thudding against the table with the weight of two giant monolithic stones fallen from the sky.

"Your name," she asked the barmaid.

"Min...Minisa, Your Grace," the older woman replied, her fingers holding very loosely the jug of ale, as if she were about to drop it at any second. "But...but they call me Minnie..."

"Minnie," Sansa replied, smiling at the woman. "_Minisa_. It's a beautiful name."

"Thank ye, Yer Grace," the woman said, bowing clumsily.

"That was my grandmother's name, my mother's mother."

_Oh grandpapa, what would you think now, if you could still see me, drinking ale out of all things in a forgotten tavern._

"I suppose this should pay for everyone's drink the rest of the night," she continued.

"Aye," the older woman replied, staring at the gold with more awe than the Queen who'd released the precious coins. "Th' year, even."

"Through winter," a big burly soldier screamed joyously behind her, almost causing her to jump, though Edric remained perfectly calm and still. "Long may she reign!"

The chants began, all the fighting men raising their swords in the air, the more modest farmers and bakers and cobblers raising their glasses and even one humble man his shoe, holes marring the coarse and worn surface. Sensing the improving mood, Sansa raised her glass back, turning from one side of the tavern to the other, before pressing it back against her lips and finishing the awful ale, which seemed to taste less awful the third time around. Without another signal, the barmaid hurried back to refill her glass, Sansa groaning inwardly, knowing that there lay another batch of liquid burden for her to force down her throat.

"You're blushing," Edric said as they sat back down, a small dimple formed against his left cheek taunting her.

"Sorry," Sansa shot back, eagerly taking another sip, hoping that each taste would ease the bitterness, which it did, slightly. "I'm clearly not a tavern girl."

"Seems like you're picking up new habits, what with the war and all."

The rabble and natural conversing had begun to pick up once more despite their presence, though Sansa could tell the difference, that all the chatter and games were more carefully uttered from before, but the Queen saw that Minnie had not moved from where she stood at the head of her table. She nodded, giving the woman permission to ask what she seemingly dared not ask.

"Is it true," she began, her lips trembling, "what they say about...the red fire priestesses...and Rhaegar? And the Sparrows."

Sansa nodded. "It is, all of it." Seeing eyes cast upon their direction again, she stood once more, so that her voice could carry across the vast room. "I saw the usurper invite into the sacred Keep the very highest priestess of that foul religion, a woman from Volantis by the name of Kinvara. I invited the High Sparrow into our audience, hoping that he could shield us from whatever vile and dark spells that woman could have cast. But I only found myself more horrified, when he revealed himself to have been in league with Rhaegar and the red priestess all along, and together they...they celebrated, they drank as we do now, cheering to the destruction of the Great Sept and with it, all of the Faith in the Seven Kingdoms."

Jaws fell agape. Of course this had been the message she and Daenerys had been spreading ever since her escape, but it would seem that some of the smallfolk possessed enough sense to doubt such ludicrous nonsense, until they heard the words coming from the very Queen herself, it would seem. Sansa could only imagine the success the Princess, Rhaegar's very own sister, had with convincing the people of the tale, wherever they were marching further north.

"The bastards..."

"We ran the Sparrows out of here at your coming, Yer Grace, killed half a dozen of them..."

"We'll kill them all fer ya, Yer Grace, I'll strangle the traitor Tyrell with his own beard..."

"My good people," the Queen spoke, amplifying her voice, her hand holding her ale out towards the gathered crowd, as if she were in the middle of a toast. "Understand that this war we wage isn't against you, isn't against your family, your friends, your children and wives and mothers, so long as you remain true to the Faith, and your Queen. I wage this war not on behalf of my Throne, usurped as it was from under me, but for the truest tenets of the Seven Pointed Star, the blessed faith of our mothers and fathers, to see it all restored to what it once was. We fight this war for you, so you may never have to live under the terrible reign of the Sparrows, who would have despoiled the Faith,_ in the name of the Faith_, until it was no longer recognizable to any of us half a generation from now. We fight to restore the sanctity of your Septs, your prayers, your marriages and ceremonies and livelihoods."

"The Tyrells," one bone thin man interrupted her, asking from a corner where he had been drinking by himself. "Are they in league with the high priestesses too?"

He was a deeper thinker for a commoner, Sansa thought, naturally skeptical of such exaggerations, and Sansa had to be careful with her words.

"I can't read into the depths of a man's heart," she began, "I carry with me not the ability to judge their very consciences. The usurper's cloak of deception has pulled the wool over the eyes of many, and many follow him and the High Sparrow without knowing of their true motives, same as I, until I learned the truth...until the Princess Daenerys was touched by the Mother's mercy and the Maiden's virtue to let go of her allegiance to her brother, and embrace the true faith of her ancestors. Perhaps men like Mace and his sons did not once know the truth. Perhaps they do not believe even now. I knew your Lady Margaery, I counted her as one of my closest friends, she was betrothed and beloved to my own brother, your Prince Robb. In all the years I've known her, I cannot imagine her to be a fanatic of such a cruel religion, she was misled, I believe, along with many in her family, and many good men across this realm. But the threat is most urgent, I cannot warn you of that enough, I watched with my own eyes as the Sparrows set alight and burn my chosen Hand Lord Baelish, who devoted all of his life in serving the realm he so loved and cherished, charging him with the falsest and flimsiest accusations of treason. Who knows who they would've aimed to burn next, once the Sparrows held all seven kingdoms in their fiery grip?"

"Not us," the man who'd questioned her answered with gritted teeth, her words seeming to have had their intended effect, mellowing his doubts.

"They'll have t'kill every last one of us before they burn us..."

It was all shit, all her tales, the loyalty of the Littlefinger which she clung to before these men, out of all things. But these lies were good lies, Sansa told herself. By convincing the villagers and smallfolk of the Reach, the kingdom whose subjugation was most crucial to her cause, it would save both the lives of her soldiers, who would face less hostility from the natives, and save the lives of the townsfolk themselves, ensuring that they would not be motivated to wage a doomed and useless fight against their would be invaders.

"I'm afraid we do not have the luxury of judging men like your liege lord by their intentions," the Queen continued. Though she'd sat once upon the Iron Throne, though she'd won Dorne through the usage of vast deception and lies, though she'd won an actual battle by the skin of their teeth at the Tower of Joy, there was a strange satisfaction of winning over such a scattered group of villagers, who believed and breathed every one of her words now as if they were told by their own Septa or Maester.

"We must judge them by the consequences they've yielded, writ by their actions, their choices. Perhaps Mace Tyrell believes he is serving the Seven when he serves the usurper even now, after the Gods have made clear their displeasure upon the broken dragon in battle. But so long as his actions further the cause of treason, that of the Sparrows, the cause of the false fire god, then men such as your liege lord, ill intentions or not, _must_ be resisted by those faithful to the Seven, till our dying breath, we must fight and destroy any who refuse to believe the truth, because it's not just our lives but our very souls whom the Gods, true and false, war their wars upon!"

With a flourish she finished the last of her second glass, barely tasting the liquid, then beckoning quickly the barmaid for a third. The rest of the night seemed a blur, as she and Edric walked from one set of men to another, Sansa learning all their names, their trades, listening as they told stories of their children lost to sickness or hunger, brothers and fathers lost to war and the like. One theme seemed common, even amongst her own soldiers, that uncertainty which always accompanied the winter, how long it would last, how much food their reserves had to keep them through the darkest of seasons even when war did not threaten their homes and well being. Upon entering, Sansa had wondered how these people could drink and celebrate so, when their own lands were at war and under siege. Now she understood that it was that very desperation which drove them into this tavern, the ale bitter enough to make them to forget their frets and fears for at least half a night.

And they'd also fretted about what truth of the word loyalty meant, until tonight at least.

"An' when yer liege lord says one thing," one drunk muttered, his breath noxious, "an' th' Queen yer swern fealty to says another, an' another King says anothir thing, an' Gods, the Sparrows..."

"It's confusing, isn't it," Sansa said, touching gently at his wrists, trying to convince herself that the man was not diseased, born of the plague himself. "When your lords commit treason, they betray not only their Queen, but their own people too, plunging them into such unnecessary wars. But know this, that as your Queen, I am loyal not to men like Mace or Loras Tyrell, who sit high in their gardens drinking wine while their lands and villages burn...but to _you_, my people, it is you that I fight for, and I shall not forget you, not while this war continues, and not after it's won."

Along with her horse, the night had cost them all their coins, her and Edric giving them all away to one group or another. Too drunk to ride, they left her steed at the stable, and she gripped tightly Edric's body as he guided them both across the deserted landscape back to their camp below the still burning bushes of Highgarden, the cold wind blowing against her face the entire ride.

"Don't vomit on me," Edric cautioned, just as Sansa was about to fall asleep, having nestled her chin against his neck and shoulder to a point where she felt almost comfortable.

She giggled. "When do we abandon the siege and continue on?"

"Once we've heard Tarly's taken the bait." He was drunk too, and burped loudly after answering her.

They'd purposely assigned few sentries guarding the northern boundaries of the castle and the bridge crossing the Mander, so as to make it possible for Lord Willas to send out riders seeking desperate aid against the siege. The plan was to keep moving, besiege Horn Hill next, then Oldtown, then back to Horn Hill, or wherever, just so long as to buy Daenerys as much time as she needed to get her armies south and across the Mander.

"We should find more taverns like this," she said, her words interrupted briefly by a violent hiccup.

"Taken a liking to ale, have we," Edric asked. His voice sounded amused and lustful, and Sansa sensed that their night together wasn't about to be concluded immediately upon their return to camp.

"We can win the people over, one village after another." Wincing, Sansa conceded, "we might be out of coin by the end of it all though."

It felt invigorating, to see the trust and faith in their eyes as she talked to them. And it gave her a strange power she never would have imagined possessing before, to speak knowingly such blatant lies, yet see the people feed upon her words as if it were the very air they needed to breath. No wonder the High Sparrow had been able to win over so easily the mob, so trusting as they were of any lie uttered to them, so long as it matched something close to what they _wanted_ to believe.

"I don't think we'll have to pay for ale much, if that's any consolation."

Sansa made a sound of disgust with her lips. "I swear, no Iron Throne is worth winning, if by the end of this war I prefer that foul stuff over a perfect glass of Arbor Gold..."


	32. Bloodying the Waters

**The Hand**

"Are you an idiot, or have you turned traitor?!"

"_Traitor_," Loras Tyrell screamed in his face, bits of the young man's spit splashing against his nose. "They killed my brother, they executed him in cold blood after the battle was won, you want to accuse me of treason, Tarly? Maybe you should rethink who you're speaking to!"

"I'm speaking to my good _son_," Randyll snarled back, though he'd instantly regretted letting his temper flare and insulting the young man, exactly the wrong tact he could have parried him with. "I am speaking to my subject, as Hand of the King!"

"What king? A fucking cripple and a hostage?"

"_Your_ King," Randyll reminded the boy. His mind must be really clouded with rage to call Rhaegar a cripple, while forgetting his own brother's state.

"Fuck you," Loras challenged him, spitting on the ground. "Face it, Tarly, there's no King, we're a headless chicken, all seven kingdoms...actually," the man coughed out with a bitter laugh, "much less than seven kingdoms, isn't it? Your Handship has never ruled properly Dorne, have you? Or the Iron Islands, or the Vale...or even the North really, just a stalemate through hostages. And how quickly did you lose the Westerlands, how quickly did you lose half the Stormlands?"

"That's what we're trying to _fix_ now," Randyll replied, cooling his temper to try and speak calmly, not failing to notice the hundreds of knights standing within earshot, looking awkwardly at the ground whilst their leaders squabbled like children...one of them did, anyhow.

"It's beyond fixing," Loras said, whipping his infernal letter through the air. "With the state of things under your leadership,_ my good Lord Hand,_ my father might as well declare himself King of the fucking Reach!"

"Careful boy," he warned. The temper tantrum would cease, and he was disposed to forgive the young man his trespasses, not just because Loras Tyrell was now family. But a loyal Hand could only do so much in the face of outright treason spoken before so many.

The young knight narrowed his eyes at Randyll. He did not know what to expect next from his son by law, who then whirled around, still waving the piece of parchment in the air.

"Soldier," he walked up to an archer. "Who is your liege lord?"

"Uhhh," the man said, looking unsteadily between Randyll and Loras, "Lord Mace Tyrell, my Lord."

"That's right," Ser Loras snapped with angry satisfaction. He then walked up to the lone Hightower boy accompanying them at the moment. "Ser Gunthor, who is your liege lord?"

"Your father, my lord," the freckled face boy answered. "But, Lord Randyll _is_ Hand to the King..."

"And who is Lord Randyll's liege lord," he continued pressing, "whom he is sworn fealty to?"

"Enough," Randyll barked out. "I will have no more of this foolishness, do you hear me? We're wasting time, I don't care family or not, I'll have you hanged if you continue this nonsense further."

To his dismay, the man broke out in laughter. "Nonsense," he asked elbowing the Hightower boy in the chest, feigning levity. "Do you hear that, he calls the orders of your liege lord, all our liege lord, nonsense. Orders to relieve the siege of Highgarden, to protect oh, I don't know, _the most important fucking castle this side of the Red Keep_, he calls it nonsense, this man...on behalf of a King who's probably appointed some cockroach in the cells of Starfall his new Hand by now."

"Listen..." His bluff had been called, and Randyll knew he held the losing hand.

"Think you'll have me hanged still," Loras continued challenging him, armed reached out in either direction, his breastplate open, as if inviting Randyll to swing Heartsbane and cut him open. "Lord Gunthor, your liege lord commands you to march south and relieve Highgarden. Will you obey him?"

"I," the young man said uneasily, wavering green eyes begging Randyll silently, "it's a good military strategy, my Lord. Let Highgarden fall, and it will be an embarrassment we can't recover from. And what next, Horn Hill, Oldtown falling, all while we chase a royal princess through the mountains?"

Gunthor Hightower wasn't challenging him directly, but the subtext remained the same. The only son of Oldtown was inclined to obey the panicked commands of the idiot Mace, and pull his host south. The Tyrell men would undoubtedly follow Loras, and he'd bet by the end of the day he would've lost much more than half his army. It was foolishness, but it was a foolishness that he was powerless to fight, not with the state of the kingdoms so fragile. Loras Tyrell was right, whether by intent or luck, the authority of a Hand to a mad and captive king was not strong. For not the last time this march, Randyll bemoaned how much simpler his life would've been had Rhaegar actually died at the tower, and his own authority then firmly re entrenched as Hand and head of the regency for a boy who would be Baelor II Targaryen.

"You're right, Ser Gunthor," Randyll relented, trying his best not to snarl and break with one closed fist the smug smile off his goodson's face. "We can't afford to lose Highgarden. Men, we march south at once to relieve the siege!"

"Send orders to every fucking fighting man in the Reach," he grumbled to Dickon half a day into their retreat, for that was what it was, a retreat without having even engaged an enemy he'd been confident of destroying, "down to the last fucking hedge knight, they're to meet with us at Highgarden."

If he couldn't ensure that the Queen and the Princess remained separated, he needed to increase his numbers as much as he could. _Chasing girls around in war_, he muttered crossly in his mind, _running from them, by the Gods. _ What had his life come to?

* * *

**Sansa**

"...an' I swar, if I go back an' see me wife in bed with the donkey, I'd grab an survivin' Sparrow an' have 'em marry each oth'r instead!"

They all laughed, the spearman at his own joke, or was it a joke? Sansa laughed because of the ale, and the absurdity of it all, and Edric well...because he was very good with these conversations, she'd realized, that he could fake it, yet not be faking it at the same time.

"Imagine him waking up tomorrow," Arya giggled, "and thinking to himself...fuck, I just told the Queen herself, to her face, that my wife likes to fuck sheep!"

"I know I've heard the jokes all me life," Sansa said, mocking lightly the man's accent as they walked back to their tent, "but I swear I'd always thought when they say the marchers fuck their own sheep...it...it wasn't the sheeps with the...the _pricks_ they were speaking of."

Brienne chortled. Though the older lady rarely drank, it seemed even the Maid of Tarth had her limits in terms of the company she could withstand soberly.

"Donkey, remember," Edric chided, the ale still upon his breath. Sansa would complain, but her own breath probably smelled worse. "I think they go both ways...I may have seen it myself even."

"You have," she asked, feigning shock. "Don't tell me you...you may have participated?"

"I don't think so," her young lover replied jovially, pretending to stumble as Sansa caught him in her arms, the two of the laughing by the time they reached their tent alone. "Not while I wasn't drunk anyway."

If their demeanors seemed too jovial for war, at least their mood matched that of their men, who were happy, for the most part, the campaign in the Reach leaving them amply fed and drunk each night. After all, sieges were a dull affair, so they may as well hand the men all the wine and ale their scouts and raiding parties could muster and, if anything, spread whispers further north to Randyll Tarly that the stupid young Queen and her younger lover were treating the campaign more like some grand tourney than an actual war.

Their siege was against Horn Hill now, more heavily guarded than Highgarden considering the value of the prisoners inside, so a decent part of their army did need to be prepared for the occasional sortie from the castle walls. Still, it was mostly a waiting game, and she and Edric had made a habit of inviting a common soldier to their meals every night, like Sansa remembered of her father, whether it was a smith from Flea Bottom King Eddard supped with in the Red Keep, or any supplicant from distant kingdoms who made the effort to travel far leagues to plead their cases in court. She and Edric made the best of it, tedious as most of their company was, but only to themselves, because while she asked the men the same questions every night, their name, their family, their stories, children, wives, hopes, dreams, fears...it was new to each man every night, occasions where Sansa could truly witness the effect her title had on these men, who could barely hope to see with their own eyes the bastard cousin of a liege lord all their lives, much less a living and breathing Queen.

It was an excuse to drink more ale, not that she enjoyed the vile liquid more these days, but it did make the long marches and the longer waits pass quicker. It bothered Sansa, meeting these men, looking them in the eye, understanding that they had their own families, whole livelihoods, which they'd abandoned to give their lives thoughtlessly for her cause, because she'd been born the daughter of King Eddard the Just, and they born a son or bastard of Ned the butcher, it gave her pause, because what right did they have, during Rhaegar's Rebellion, when grandpapa and Lord Arryn spoke of _only_ thousands dead in the battle, when each of the thousand was...well, was their own person, each as _alive_ and spirited as any man in her Small Council, or girl who waited upon her? And soon she'd send more to their deaths, her men, Tarly's men, than perhaps all the ones her father and grandfather had wreaked in their day.

"Would you _fuck_ me Edric," Sansa asked, half falling into their cot and pulling him down with her, "if some witch turned me into a goat, would you _fuck_ me like one of your marcher knights?"

"More likely," he replied, imitating, along with her, the marcher accent, hands tearing at her dress and pulling her undergarments by her ankles, then lunging his face in between her legs, "I'd have yer well roasted and I'd feast on yer fer days."

Grabbing and tugging at his hair, Sansa chided herself for enjoying this war so much. No, it wasn't that she was enjoying the actual war, but somehow she had found herself enjoying herself, _despite_ the war. But then, how did that make her or Edric any different from nearly each and every one of their soldiers, save Brienne, whom they could not compel to drink more than half a glass of ale most nights? They lived their lives to the fullest because it may end any day, and that was the one aspect Sansa shared with them that, though she would not risk her life in the fighting, her life still depended on its toils.

And things were bound to get serious soon. They had word that the Tarly's were marching south, that they'd even reached the burnt outer walls of Highgarden they'd left behind. Which meant the time was coming to depart Horn Hill soon, along with all the ales and wines and meats of the fertile Mander River valley, and fly into the hills, tempting their enemies into pursuit. If Tarly didn't give chase, by Edric's calculations they were bound to have given Daenerys and the Lannister armies time enough to cross the Mander by then. Either way, the great battle was coming, one whose odds and results they were far less sure of than the Battle of Joy, which they'd almost lost badly, Sansa reminded herself. So better to grip with her own hands and enjoy as much of of her fragile life as she could, while she still could.

* * *

**Edric**

"What do you mean, the Lannister host is lost to us?"

The Queen appeared the perfect resolve of calm to all observers inside that tent that morning, but Edric could read the fear in her voice. Brienne's face looked stern, but he could sense uneasiness from the Maid of Tarth as well. From Caron and Donnel Swann and men like Andrey Dalt, with whom he'd invited less often to their morning meetings, planning the marches for the next days to come, there came less apprehension, these lords and heirs possessing all the confidence of the blind. The Queen's confidence he may possess at the moment, not all of them would remain happy following the orders of boy not yet seven and ten, and Edric knew that, as smooth as their campaign had been thus far, the first signs of adversity might threaten the fragile alliance they'd built through the earliest stages of this war.

"We'd expected Tarly to chase us south to Horn Hill," he explained, "to give Lord Lancel and the Princess breathing room to cross the Mander further upriver. It was my hope that Lord Lancel and his men would read the map same as us, and cross the river downstream by its mouth, so that we may meet and lure the enemy into the mountains. But it's the northern route they've chosen instead, towards Cider Hall."

"Randyll Tarly is no fool," Brienne added, pointing to Highgarden on the map and keeping her rough worn nail in place as she spoke. "Retreating to Highgarden...he may not have had a choice. But that's as far as he would've let us pull him, he knows the siege on Horn Hill is a bluff. So he'll stay, and tempt either our army or the Princess's to try and pass by the castle, and defeat us in turn."

"I'm assuming," Bryce Caron asked nonchalantly, "that we can't just arrange to meet with the Lannister host all at once at Highgarden and overwhelm Tarly?"

Edric liked the young heir to Nightsong. The marcher lord was far from a stranger to himself or Beric, and they'd taken a habit of sparring in the early mornings, while the slightly older man threw out vague jests as to his previous night spent with the Queen. Their skills were matched on the field by now, a flip of the coin as to who won their sessions, and while he liked to play the dumb swordsman, Edric could tell that he had a better mind for strategy than what he would prefer to reveal to others.

"It'd be a miracle and a longshot," Edric explained. "The timing would have to be absolutely perfect, and that's not assuming Tarly doesn't march north the moment he hears they're crossing the Mander, reach them days before we even arrive back at Highgarden"

He would have liked to take Horn Hill while they were besieging it as well, and truly Edric knew the castle better than most, including the secret entrance at its backside. But the problem was that Talla knew that he knew as well as anyone, didn't she? He'd made two rides secretly at night by the back gate without telling Sansa, if only not to give her any false hope, and saw that the walls above were as well guarded as anywhere in the castle.

_Or are you exaggerating its difficulties, because you fear what's to come, after Horn Hill is stormed and won?_

"We can try to engage them to stop them from attacking Daenerys's host," Arya said, eyes wandering the map, the diminutive girl standing next to the gigantic Lady of Tarth, an unlikely yet also predictable friendship having formed between the two, "but that leaves us fighting a battle against Randyll Tarly without the help of the Westerlands army."

"That's the problem, isn't it," Brienne summarized. "Any move we make to join up will more than likely give Tarly the chance to engage us separated, which is what he wants."

Nodding, both of them looked nervously towards their Queen. That she remained ignorant of this possibility was their fault. Both of them told her well of their plans, of how they could out trick and outmaneuver Randyll Tarly so as to outnumber and eventually encircle him. But neither of them deliberated too much to her on what could happen if the experienced commander failed to meet their bait. In hindsight, though they never communicated in words to each other the chance that the worst would be realized, both he and Brienne should have done better in appraising their Queen of the direst possibility.

"Where do we think Daenerys's men are," Sansa asked calmly. There was something to be admired in her fortitude, having realized their failures, then moving on without any accusations or bemoaning of their plight.

"The last words from scouts are she's marched west from Old Oak," Donnel Swann said. "That would place her probably somewhere south of Goldengrove, aiming for the Rose Road."

"The opposite of where we wanted her to go," Edric explained apologetically to the Queen.

"So chances are we can't combine without one of our armies battling Tarly?"

"Let Tarly wipe out the Lannisters and rid the realm of one more dragon," Bennett Cafferen said, an older, bearded lord who counted as one of their newest arrivals, hearkened by the news of their defeat and capture of Rhaegar at Joy. "The enemy will be weakened and wearied, then we can move in on them."

It was a crude idea, but it wasn't the worst idea. However Edric saw immediately Sansa's revulsion towards it.

"You're right, Lord Bennett," she nevertheless said diplomatically to the lord of Fawnton. "We have far more men than the Princess. It is we, then, who should give battle to the enemy, for we stand a better chance at winning than our faithful allies."

Her blue eyes fell back upon Edric, as if seeking his approval, and he nodded, though they hadn't talked yet between themselves about the plans, this was the course he was leaning towards as well.

"Then we do it," the Queen boldly made her decision, "we march against Tarly, and either win this war, or lose it, no sense in dragging it further out."

All of them looked solemnly to the map, then back at their Queen, the men and occasional lady respecting the her fortitude, even Lord Cafferen, whose suggestion had just been refused. There was something eminently noble to the way she spoke, her willingness to sacrifice even her own well being for the sake of her allies, her tone perhaps mimicking some of the great knights of old. Certainly Edric knew that, if their cause was to uphold this right, this idea, that a woman could sit solely upon the Iron Throne, no one knew more than he that Sansa I Stark was as worthy as any man who came before her. Seeing her now, standing proudly before a table of seasoned lords and soldiers, wearing a fresh thin piece of silver armor cut out for her from one of the nearby village forges, though the Queen was no swordswoman like Brienne or her sister, at her best Sansa held the same kind of aura as the great ones, such as Jaehaerys the Conciliator, or more recently, men like her father King Eddard or the fallen Stag, Robert the Strong.

But Edric also knew the true truth, more than anyone else at this table, save the Princess Arya, that at her worst, Sansa could be...well, certainly not anything resembling the madness of an Aerys or Maegor, everything about her was contemplation and calculation...but the steel within her soul could easily be forged into a ruthlessness matching the likes of the Bloodraven of old, or the former Lord of Casterly Rock Tywin Lannister, both men who had been banished to Castle Black because they were too dangerous to keep roaming the realm.

"The trick is to outwit the enemy," Edric said, thinking out loud, unable to help from basking in the approval of his Queen, "while letting him think he's outwitting us. To trap him, even as he thinks he's entrapping us."

"Easier said than done," Brienne said, "Lord Randyll's not an idiot, he won't bite for feints or false retreats like Jon Connington, he won't think he has any advantage, until he actually does."

"So then," Andrey Dalt said, yet another subordinate older than he whose voice rose lightly towards a challenge, if still within the boundaries of respect, "how do we accomplish the impossible?"

Forcing his voice from wavering, the Lord of Starfall and the apparent Lord Commander or Master of War or some official title of all Seven Kingdoms, in name at least, took their piece on the map and moved it up. "We leave Horn Hill and march straight towards the Mander."

"Cross here," Donnel Swann pointed at the map, near the river's mouth. "That's where the river's widest, isn't it?"

"It would be a difficult crossing which leaves us vulnerable," Brienne agreed, a twinkle in her eye to indicate that she understood what Edric was hinting at. "Which would lure Randyll Tarly into attacking us amidst a difficult crossing..."

"Precisely," Edric agreed. "And if he doesn't take the bait and remains at Highgarden, we do cross, then send riders northeast as fast as we can to tell the Princess to refrain from crossing the Mander, and to march back meet us along the northern banks of the river."

"Aye," Bennett Cafferen agreed, bits and pieces of his morning's breakfast spewing out of his mouth and catching in his dark beard as he spoke, "an' if Tarly tries to cross to counter us, we attack him while he's weak."

"That's the truth of it," Edric agreed with a smile. "We'll be marching dangerously within sight of Highgarden in the coming days. But that's the point, isn't it, Your Grace? To bring the danger our way?"

"Aye, my Lord," Sansa answered him, a curious mix of formality and informality. "We can't win this war sitting on our asses and eating lemoncakes, can we?"

They all chuckled, not out of politeness, but gratitude for a soldier Queen who was fast becoming one of their own, expressing a levity well accustomed to the gallows humor of men were well versed in the idea that every morning could be their last. But who better understood this than Sansa, who'd faced constant doom every night even within the gilded chambers of the Red Keep?

Outside, the sun had crept past the horizon, and he could almost hear the droplets of dew melting off the grass, collecting and dissipating in the direction of the very river where their destiny beckoned. These small streams and rivulets would find blood once they met the Mander, Edric thought. The question was, would it be the blood of their enemies, or their Queen?

* * *

The Queen shook her head in frustration, drinking what appeared to be half a glass of ale without flinching. Their camp remained festive in the first days marching northwest from Horn Hill, prospects for an easy victory over an outwitted Tarly host fresh in the minds of everyone, from Queen to common soldier. Then they'd waited by the banks of the Mander. Waiting was bad for soldiers, Edric knew despite his limited experience in commanding men. Whispers grumbled, complaints grew, and worries voiced that they'd all been betrayed. They were still a long ways from mutiny, Edric knew that, he'd have to order a lot more whippings and hangings before that threat grew closer, but he did not like the way things paced.

"They've got us outnumbered, don't they," Sansa complained unhappily with a burp out of her throat. They took their meals privately in their tents now, gone were the days of dining with their men, not when the truth was known by those up high, and suspected by those down below, that they'd been outmaneuvered.

"By some," Edric replied, sitting next to his Queen, placing his hand sympathetically on her upper leg, squeezing it to try and give her some of the resolve that he did not have. "Not by much though, perhaps five thousand, seven thousand at the most. But we'll be almost close to even once the Unsullied arrive."

He'd convinced Sansa to call for the mercenaries stationed several days away in the Red Mountains before leaving Horn Hill. Fortunately the foreigners, led by Dagos Manwoody, had the good sense of pursuing a southerly march to avoid being intercepted by the Tarly army, though their route meant a delayed arrival by the banks of the Mander.

"What if we wait here," Sansa asked, the ale heavy upon her breath. "We force Tarly to wait, long enough for Daenerys's men to get them from the rear."

Edric feared that he was the reason this habit had become a vice for the Queen now, his bad decisions. It was good for the men, to see their Queen sharing the same common ales they drank each night, and certainly Sansa's regular dining with the men had done wonders for morale, things would be much worse by now, if the men thought they were fighting for some spoiled Queen who played with dolls and dined on lemoncakes and Dornish Reds whilst they died, rather than a woman who knew and understood their lives, their desires, their fears, or so they'd think.

"Tarly wouldn't allow that. He'd make his attack many days before he'd find himself outnumbered."

They'd discussed the same conundrum that morning during the war council. None of this was new to Sansa, she was far too clever to have forgotten or not understood their dilemma in the first place, but Edric feared that it was fear driving her now, that she needed to hear the truth again from someone that she trusted, as way of some perverse assurance.

"Damn the man," Sansa muttered, finishing the ale in her glass, as Edric rose and obligingly poured her another, and for himself half a glass as well. "Randyll Tarly's no fool, isn't he?"

"No, I'm afraid he's not." Again, assurance, even if it was assurance of their doom.

Each move he'd made had required a subsequent response on Tarly's part, and each time the old seasoned veteran refused to oblige them. Word was that he'd marched south from Highgarden within days of their departure from Horn Hill, so that by the time they reached the banks of the Mander, they could see the smoke billowing above their enemy camps in the distance. The first morning he'd sent several hundred men on boats crossing the Mander, the entire army ready and geared to meet and outflank the enemy charge. But Randyll Tarly did not move, and Edric was forced to call the men back, because an actual honest crossing would actually make give the enemy a most ripe target for destruction.

And there the stalemate continued. Obviously Tarly was not going to cross and leave himself vulnerable, so any move by either army in any direction would invite attack by the other. A retreat back towards Horn Hill and the Red Mountains were possible, but with falling morale, even a few skirmishes in their rearguard could threaten to deteriorate into a rout and the scattering of their fragile alliance between disparate kingdoms. They had help coming, with the Unsullied expected by the following morning. But with each blessing came a curse, with word that the Hightowers were sending more men north from Oldtown, possibly more reinforcements in number than what the Unsullied would offer them.

"We need to give battle now, don't we," Sansa asked, acceptance finally choking through her throat.

"Once the Unsullied arrive," Edric agreed, "we face them and meet them, on our terms, before things get worse."

"Can we win?"

The way she looked at him when she asked the questions, pitiful eyes begging for an affirmative answer, because not just her life but her very soul depended on it, it was easy for Edric to forget what happened to the Martells, what she'd have him do further on in this war, should they continue to emerge victorious. Yet in his eyes now she was not a Queen, not an brutal executioner, not the Stranger in pretty red hair, but a helpless girl, who needed him to protect and defend her, and he could not help but feel the urgent need to fulfill her needs with every fiber of his soul.

"I'd hope so," Edric said, trying to sound more sure than he was. "But it'd be a flip of a coin."

"But that's how war is, isn't it?" A mirthful smile, as if she was the one trying to comfort him now, to cast away all the blame he'd placed upon his own shoulders.

"Only when we've failed to make it more favorable to our side."

They drank the rest of their ale in a solemn silence, gazing towards the table which held their maps with a wishful longing, as if some enchantment could solve for them all their problems. Then, almost in a trance, they lay down into their cot in unison, Edric lying on the outside facing the doorway to their tent, Sansa taking his body into her arms, as if he were her child, despite the fact that his frame was taller and wider than hers.

The problem was that Edric could honestly not think of another strategy they could've pursued, anywhere they could've done better. He'd tried every trick known to him and his men and women, they'd done everything they should have done, but except for one rearwards move to Highgarden, Randyll Tarly, always anticipating his next march, never obliged in cooperating with his grand plans. Perhaps they should have remained in Dorne, but the result would've been the same, Edric rationed. Knowing Randyll Tarly now, he would never risk an invasion through the mountains, which meant a free hand for the Hand to take for himself a fresh hostage in Daenerys Targaryen, then eliminate one by another any army which may march to their cause from the Riverlands or Dorne.

Gradually, it came to rest in his mind the idea that there had never been any other choice all along except war, as it was always conducted, a flip of a coin even against the most incompetent of opponents. He should know, having almost been outwitted by a King who was practically as mad as his mad father.

* * *

**The Hand**

"I don't like it."

"Why not?"

There was a difference between what he was willing to admit during a war council, to the likes of idiots like Loras Tyrell, as opposed to what he could say to his own son. Certainly he worried that Dickon could lose, if not faith, then confidence, where even the subtlest of hesitations could turn the tide during a battle. But at some time or another, he had to trust his eldest son.

_No, not eldest,_ Randyll had to remind himself, almost forgetting. _Eldest who's worthy to inherit my mantle, that is._

"It's too much a flip of a coin."

"You're not sure then," Dickon asked, playing with his food with a fork, neither one of them possessing much appetite the eve before a battle. And battle was all but guaranteed, by the way the enemy had maneuvered that afternoon, advancing and positioning themselves at the edge of the field west of them along the southern banks of the Mander. He'd arranged his formations in turn, despite the arrival of the Queen's mercenaries earlier that morning. Randyll had let them be, because sending any small amount of men or cavalry to intercept them meant losing them, if the enemy had prepared some kind of ambush to protect their reinforcements.

"The numbers are too close to being even," Randyll said, moving the pieces fruitlessly back and forth on the map. "There's no advantage to the terrain, we've both got the river on one flank, open fields on the other. Only thing we can hope for is foolishness on their end, that they make a mistake."

"She's got a boy commanding them," Dickon said, though his tone was careful and respectful enough not to be dismissive of their enemy no matter the personage, mindful of all that Randyll had taught him. "From what I hear happened at the Tower of Joy, it wasn't Lord Edric's brilliance as much as the Swann betrayal that won the battle for her."

"No," Randyll answered, grabbing a Hightower and Redwyne piece with three fingers and moving it fruitlessly towards them from Oldtown, mind knowing that their reinforcements would never arrive in time, damn that wedding. "But we must assume the best out of our enemies, that they've learned from their mistakes." Grudgingly, he placed the tower and the grapes back south. "The boy's got one trick, the feint retreat. Remind your men tomorrow morning not to fall for it, not to overpursue. We maintain our discipline, we follow our plan."

"Understood, my lord," his son answered formally.

The plan was simple, really, as most plans ought be when one held the advantage of numbers. The expectation was that both armies would try to outflank the other on their respective southern flanks, the open ones facing the fields, in order to drive and trap their enemy against the Mander. And that would be what Randyll would try to communicate with his opening maneuvers, sending Loras Tyrell to commit all his left against the enemy's right, to give them the impression that he was committing to this tried and true tactic. But truly, a flanking maneuver was a tactic meant for those who sought glory, most battles were won at the center, so that's where Randyll planned to send the bulk of all his reserves, thinning the enemy's center by pinning their right flank, and then breaking through for the final rout.

"Discipline," he stressed, pounding his fist against the table hard enough that pieces fell on both sides of the map, "stick to the plan, that's how we win."

Dickon knew the whole plan. Loras Tyrell didn't, he'd lead the vainglorious charge that would, with any luck, result in their victory on the opposite of the battlefield. And if the youngest son of Highgarden died upon the morrow, Randyll could only hope that he'd left a child in his daughter's belly already.

* * *

**Sansa**

Dawn. War. Blood. Life, or death. She'd lived through several battles already, but this seemed something entirely different than the war she'd experienced before, that tens of thousands of men, on both sides of the field, stood arrayed and fully prepared for what was to follow, falling into a restless sleep knowing that the next day promised either glory or doom, nothing in between.

She thought of Jon, toiling somewhere on the frozen Wall in the middle of winter, for her sake, and for Rhaegar's. She'd free her cousin from his vows, so long as she could win this war. She thought of the armor he'd had made for her, a gift along with Arya's Needle, except Arya still had hers, while the metal he'd had so painstakingly crafted for her was lying somewhere haphazardly in the Red Keep, if they hadn't thrown it all out at all. At least Arya's Needle still fit her sister, Jon's armor probably too small for her by now. She'd grown since then, in height, in width, and in girth, especially after all the ale she'd been drinking of late. Her newest pieces of armor, forged by the very villagers they were invading, felt light, felt comfortable, giving her the illusion that she, like Brienne or Arya, was a woman who could inflict death and pain upon her enemies, when the very opposite was true. Yet, riding back and forth at the head of tens of thousands of men, their enemies and all their spears and swords and banners in sight on the opposite end of the field, the Queen felt as vulnerable as ever, knowing that any stray arrow, or sword, or shield, would be the end of her, fancy armor or not, though the cold of the cloudy, gloomy morning seemed beyond permeating her skin under its cover.

"Men of Dorne," she began, "men of the Stormlands, men of the Reach, men of _all_ Seven Kingdoms, of Westeros, or beyond," Sansa said carefully, recalling the Unsullied soldiers forming their right flank, though the former slaves could likely not understand her. "I ask you today to fight this battle, to kill our enemies...and to die for me, Your Queen."

Spears pounded against the ground, echoing the sentiments of men blind and dumb enough to give their lives for no good reasons at all.

"But more importantly," Sansa cried, raising her voice as she reared her horse again and again, trying to project her words far across to as many of the gathered men as possible, "I ask you to fight for _yourselves_. I've come to know many of you in this war, I've dined with you, broken bread with you, drank with you." She paused, purposefully. "Burped and farted and shit with you."

Waves of genuine laughter broke out from the men. Good. She needed them to both not see her as a girl, and also see her as a girl, who'd yet made every effort to be one of them, despite her girlness.

"I've come to know the people we're fighting for too," Sansa continued, growing more comfortable with every word she spoke, especially given the response she'd received so far into her speech. "I've dined and drank with the villagers and townsfolk in the lands we march through, same as you, I've spoken to the butchers and the bakers and the millers, I've spoken to their wives and their daughters, their fathers, their old and infirm. Some of us come from the ranks of their lords, whom we fight today. But most of you come from the same ilk of those you fight, you all know this, you've met them in their villages, you've drank with them too, you've handed bread and grain to them, because all of you know, that these people...they're _you_. They're _us_. They're no different from us, whether Dornishmen or Andal, or a Queen who shares the blood of the Andals and the First Men.

The only difference between us, and our enemies...is that our enemies were betrayed, they were led astray, by their lords, whom they trusted with their bonds of fealty. They were led astray by men, by lords who sought to follow false Gods, who became sworn to, through deception and betrayal, weaving their falsest and basest of heresies through the fabric of our societies, our villages, our families, our shared and common bonds. You've spoken to the villagers and townsfolk of the Reach, you've dined and drank with them, you know that they are faithful and _good_ people, who only wish to be true to the Gods, and to the Seven Pointed Star which guides all of us. Most of the men you're about to fight today are the same. That they have to die for a lie, for the treachery of their liege lords, that you'd have to kill them for crimes not of their own volition...it is the greatest tragedy, I cry for their souls, I mourn for them, and I pray for them...and I beg you all to do the same, to wage battle against our enemies today, but pray for their souls afterwards, for they are not so different as us, except that they don't have a choice, that they don't know any better.

But should they die, their deaths must serve a purpose! To free the realms of heresies and the tyrannies of the false gods, to preserve the cultures and ways of our ancestors, from Dorne to the Vale, from the Marches to Casterly Rock to Riverrun, for the souls and prayers of our own families, who remain at home, waiting for us, seeking to welcome us at our hearths at the war's end."

There felt a pride in having written and memorized a speech herself, rather than reciting words composed by others. It was far cry from the speeches her grandfather and Lord Arryn would've had her say, so chocked with knowing lies and manipulations. Perhaps it'd be closer to something the Littlefinger would write, though he'd never confessed to her even as he burned, of his sickness and deceptions.

The cheers grew louder and louder with every breath she took, so easy were these men to manipulate, same as the drunks in the tavern villages. Nearby, Edric and Arya watched wordlessly, knowing the entirety of her bullshit. She watched Thoros of Myr down a swig of wine, not caring for any dogma, his drink blinding him to anything but fire and blood. And the likes of Brienne and Caron and Andrey Dalt and all whom she needed to believe her bullshit, same as the fighting men, same as the smallfolk, Sansa felt guilty for having to still pull the wool over their eyes, though she felt less guilt by the day.

"So I ask you today not to fight for your Queen, though you fight for her! I ask you to fight for yourselves, your families, your villages, your religion, your Gods, your way of life! I ask you to shed the blood of our enemies, so that their families may receive the blessings of the peace to follow! And I ask you to exercise your vengeance on the lords and knights who _chose_ their treason, who _chose_ their heresy, who chose to betray the Faith and follow false Gods, and I ask you to bath gleefully in their blood when the sun meets its eve tonight!"

If the screaming she received in response was any indication, they would win this battle...or die to the very last man and woman.

* * *

**The Hand**

"Their archers," Dickon cried in a panic, "they're cutting through our men by the hundreds!"

"Let them," Randyll said, watching from a small rise, a rare piece of topography which sat perhaps half a foot higher than the battleground beyond them. It was his only vantage point, but he'd take it, because it was his best vantage. "No storm of arrows has ever stopped a charge, not any resolute one anyhow."

The Tyrell boy would survive anyhow, Randyll thought. He'd positioned his goodson at the front of the charge, and the arrows were mostly hitting their rear of their cavalry and the foot soldiers that followed. It had taken him some time to decide in his mind whether he wanted the bother of a living Loras Tyrell after the battle, but Randyll had finally decided that he'd rather his goodson survive, not for his daughter's sake, he suspected that Talla knew of his true inclinations, but because the trouble of having to explain to Mace Tyrell the deaths of two of his sons would be too much of a hassle. Either the young knight's vaunted skills with the sword would keep him through the battle...or it wouldn't, but a heroic and honorable death would be less questionable than one which could ultimately be traced to his own negligence.

"They're charging their infantry," Dickon observed of their enemy right. "Dornishmen, by the looks of their garbs, they'll outflank us if we don't do something."

So the game had begun. He'd made the first move, sending his right to bait the Queen's men in turn, and gauge their reaction. It was as he'd predicted. Despite the move, the enemy was committed to their original strategy of outflanking his left, to pin him against the river. Now each would try to continue outflanking the other on the open side of the battlefield in turn, or so he'd have them believe.

"Good," Randyll almost whispered. He turned to Dickon's page, a Florent boy. "Tell the Rowans to send their cavalry, but only the Rowan cavalry, none else, you hear!"

The boy rode off the relay his commands. Dickon rode closer to him, the boy was clearly itching for battle, but Randyll needed his son beside him, to watch, to observe, to learn how to command. Fortunately his son did not fight him, Dickon rarely did, whatever his personal wants.

"We only commit them enough to make them think we're determined on breaking their flank?"

Randyll nodded. The core of his army was in his reserves, Hightower, Blackbar, and Fossoway banners, fresh and rested. Once the enemy committed more and more of his men towards securing their right flank, one central charge through the middle ought be enough to break the enemy center. His right, situated along the Mander, were composed of men from Horn Hill along with some Tyrell men, many of whom had been manning the walls of the enemy sieges fortnights ago. They would charge, but carefully of course, because the river bent away from them towards the middle of the battlefield, same as enemy left, Goatshorn Bend, they called it, and any advance by either army would risk opening up their flank facing the water.

"We send our right at the very last," Randyll echoed, gearing his horse for when he and Dickon would lead the main charge to crush their enemy. "They'll sweep up the enemy after we've crushed their center."

* * *

**Edric**

"Are you serious," Andrey Dalt questioned. With the dwindling of the Martells down to a seven year old boy, and the absence of Cletus Yronwood herding slaves somewhere out in Essos, the young knight of Lemonwood would be perhaps the premier soldier in Dorne if it weren't for Edric, and the Queen's favor for him.

"I meant what I said," Edric screamed, as loudly and authoritatively as he could. "Swing your men to the left, towards the Mander, move them, ready them and await my orders for an advance."

"With all respect my lord," Andrey protested, his long dark hair swaying in the wind as he shook his head defiantly, "our right will break, if we don't support them!"

"The order stands," Edric said, standing his ground, resisting the urge to emphasize his point by unsheathing the ungainly sword of Sansa's father from his left hip. On his right he carried the sword he was actually used to fighting with, for if and when the time came to ride into battle himself, the Queen's worry for his life be damned.

"Aye," Andrey said begrudgingly, but nevertheless prepared to carry out his orders.

"And bring the Unsullied with you!"

"Are you gaining towards suicide, my lord, or is it treason you've decided upon?"

"Do you not trust Lady Brienne? Just fucking do it!"

Without another word Dalt marched away, barking orders to his own men as well as Dagos Manwoody, who beckoned with hand motions the mercenaries to begin their movement towards the river. Together with some of the Dornish squadrons who had suffered the most during the Battle of Joy, the Unsullied capped off the reserves on the right of his battlefield, heavily loaded on the side away from the Mander, seemingly more than prepared for the initial enemy attack. By weakening his right, he was depending on the ability of Brienne and her men to hold off the brunt of the enemy's outflanking maneuver, along with the newly arrived Cafferens and Errols, fresh in their first action in battle.

His center was comprised mostly of Dornishmen, his own from Starfall, High Hermitage, along with the Yronwood banners, and many of his other countrymen. They formed much of his the reserve in the middle too, including Fowler men along with Wyls and Tolands who'd arrived late, missing the last battle at Joy. Seeing Stevron Wyl, an older, grey bearded lord who commanded his portion of the reserve, Edric rode in his direction and ordered him to support their right flank.

"Sending your right left and yer center reserves right," the grizzled man snarled at him. "Are you mad, boy?"

"Just do it," Edric screamed, projecting his voice as deeply as he could, "in the name of the Queen! Just your men and the Fowler banners, tell the Tolands to hold!"

The old man rode off to follow his orders, Edric's eyes never straying too far behind his back, to ensure that his orders were being carried out to the letter. Perhaps the older lord was right, he was going mad, it was a risky strategy he was pursuing, but for now, he needed Randyll Tarly to think him a fool.

* * *

**The Hand**

At first, he'd thought the Queen's boy foolish. The advantage of such a scattered army gathered by the Queen meant that each unit was easily recognizable and distinguishable from the other, and he'd just seen with his own eyes the withdrawal of the entirety of the Unsullied men, with their distinctive dark armor and facemasks, marching away from the enemy right. Then Randyll thought him clever, that the young Lord of Starfall had anticipated his move against his center, choosing to use his Unsullied to buffer his lines. Then, as his own men were gaining ground on the small rise where the enemy flank was positioned, he saw banners riding furiously to counter his attack.

"Horses," Dickon remarked, both of them seeing the Dornish banners waved high in the air. "They're committing their cavalry to their right."

"Some of it, at least," Randyll muttered. "Switching their horses with infantry, not a bad move." The time was nigh.

"They'll cut through us."

"As they shall." He was ready. Heartsbane was ready. His son looked him in the eyes, Dickon was ready, the Gods help them all. "They've moved the sellswords to buffer their center. It'll help. And it'll hurt. But it won't be enough."

Understanding his signal, Dickon rode forth into the fray, his sword held high in the air.

"Men! Ready yourselves! We charge, we fight..."

For a second, Randyll wondered whether he should have bequeathed his son Heartsbane for the battle. It was too late now, perhaps the valyrian sword would be a fitting reward for a battle well fought and won. But for now, he needed the weapon too, by the Gods. Pulling at the reins of his horse, bracing his shield ready for the oncoming wave of arrows, Randyll rode up through the ranks to join his son at the head of their looming assault.

* * *

**Edric**

"Loose," he screamed again and again, riding past the archers, seeing the enemy charge commence, knowing that he needed to thin their numbers however much with their archers before they became fully engaged with the Dornish spearmen.

Two riders strode furiously back towards his post by the reserves. The smaller one he could barely tell through the blood and the grime on her face that it was the royal Princess, fighting as skillfully and valiantly as any of their men. The other rider next to her was Arys Oakheart, the once and future whitecloak, his golden armor so heavily coated with blood that it looked like the metal had been painted red since the beginning.

"They're hitting our center hard," the older knight screamed. Behind him, he saw that the Queen had rode up to their ranks, possibly concerned after seeing her sister's retreat.

"Good," Edric said, holding his fingers above his eyes to try to get a better look at the field. "They're sending all their reserves at us, concentrating all their horses against our center, what cavalry that's not already committed against our right."

"Our right won't hold for much longer," Andrey Dalt said, and indeed, Edric could see that slowly but surely, the enemy was pushing their lines back, inch by inch, foot by foot. "I give our center a few minutes before it breaks too, we barely have any horsemen to back them up, by the Gods man, send us over to help!" Dalt's eyes were desperate, an indication that he might pursue his own movements sooner than not, orders be damed.

Edric had positioned nearly all his reserves heavily weighted to their right initially, including most of their mounted knights, before ordering Dalt to order them to the center after the first assault on his flank. To their left by the river, Edric watched as the marcher banners brace for the impact of the coming charge. But Tarly's assault was much deeper in his center than on his enemy's right, deep enough where his archers were still shooting volleys of arrows at the enemy rearguard, mostly footmen now that the vanguard cavalry, let by the Tarly's themselves, if Edric could tell from the banners, was already cutting through the spearmen at their middle.

"If you're going to do something, now's the time," the Princess muttered impatiently, and Edric agreed.

"Now," he screamed, drawing Ice and pointing it in the air. First he looked at Manwoody. "Split the Unsullied, send half of them back to support our right, the other half against the Tarly charge! Dalt!"

"My Lord."

The young man seemed on the verge of intransigence, and justified, Edric figured, given their dire situation, but having the Queen beside him at this moment, who was doing a very good job of hiding her inner terror, helped buffer his authority.

"Commit all our remaining reserves against the enemy right! Swing the horses furthest left, take advantage of the ground on Goatshorn Bend, I'll the charge myself, I want every man's horse practically treading water!"

"Aye," Dalt agreed, recognizing the tactic, the ire in his blood ready to be directed against their enemies now, rather than himself. With a scream and a last looked back at his Queen, unspoken words silently exchanged and quickly understood with a quick blink and gaze of the eyes, Edric rode forward towards the river, in the direction of the Dondarrion and Caron and Swann banners, swinging his progress around them through a thin gap between the edges of his lines and the Mander.

The battleground was even, the numbers were somewhat even, and Edric had initially expected from Randyll the same tactic he'd expected the old Lord of Horn Hill would expect out of him, a young and inexperienced commander...the tried and true tactic of swarming the enemy's weaker, undefended flank, then pinning and destroying them against the river. But the moment he'd seen Tarly move first against his flank, Edric would have bet all he had that it was a feint, and the bulk of the Tarly assault would come against his center or left. Against his left, he hadn't anticipated a strong chance, but he'd been prepared at the time to send his reserves against a weakened enemy center. It would be a much riskier stratagem than he would've preferred, because any successful headway through the enemy's middle still left them vulnerable to an envelopment on either side should one of Tarly's charges against his flanks gain traction and overwhelm his peripheries.

But the concentrated charge in the center was exactly what he'd been hoping for from the beginning. It left the enemy right weakened, and though that flank was defended by the Mander, the small bend in the river away from them, along with the enemy's charge in its direction, gave him just enough breathing room to mount an outflanking assault with all the reserves he had. Even successful, it would prove the least damaging to the enemy, giving Tarly a good chance of escaping with a much of his army whole were they to act early enough, the rest of the Queen's army not committed to the attack by the Mander too distracted or decimated to contain or pursue. But better a smaller victory that he could be better sure of, than a riskier approach that held an equal chance of seeing their army destroyed as the enemy's.

He saw the Princess keeping up with his mount with every stride to his right, and screaming, both his arms holding up one sword each in the air, he plunged them down at the necks of the nearest knights he saw.

* * *

**The Hand**

The fighting was thickest where he and Dickon were. Most of their enemies were Dornish, their spears proving more difficult than swords, Randyll thought, too many of their horses killed and maimed from a far distance, reducing their advantage beast by beast, man by man. But the numbers were on their side, as was time, all they had to do was push on, and soon enough the enemy would break. Easier said than done, of course, he heard his chest heaving, his breathing heavy and ragged, a terrifying reminder that unlike his son, he was no longer a young man, far removed from his prime as a warrior. Ahead, he heard strange shouts and chants, and saw the almost inhuman masks worn by the Unsullied sellswords.

"Prepare yourselves," Tarly shouted, cutting Heartsbane through the neck of one masked Dornishman, swinging his sword through the side of another, barely dodging leftwards and away from the trust of a spear. The boy lord was good, he'd recognized immediately that the initial charge was a feint, sending his reserves to guard against the attack he'd anticipated on his center. That they would encounter the Unsullied reserves now though seemed a good sign of the progress they'd already made through the enemy lines, but rearing his horse, Randyll rode back through the waves of his advancing rearguard, his mind thinking even as he waved them on.

If the enemy center was stronger than he'd anticipated, then it would mean they'd be fast losing ground on their right. Was it too late to shift away the attack, and break their flank, as his initial feint had threatened. But his thoughts were interrupted by the blare of trumpets, screams bellowed out in both triumph and panic, and a shout in his direction from his son.

"Father!"

Randyll turned his head to his right, seeing his son fending off the enemy spears closer to the river, and a mass of enemy horses bearing marcher banners somehow having formed a perimeter against the edges of their lines, slowly pressing down on his direction, cutting through and compacting his position with every distant clang of metal.

"Protect our right," Randyll screamed. From his position closer to the rear now, he pointed his sword at the river, yelling furiously for the advancing reserves to face this unexpectedly deadly assault. The more his men were pushed back, the more room it gave the enemy, swarming with what seemed to be endless waves of riders and footmen.

_I've been tricked,_ he realized. _I've been goaded, by a boy no less._

Though his footmen by the thousands now answered the call and ran towards the river, they were helpless to sway the tide of the battle for the moment, positioned still too far back to be able to engage the marcher counterattack. And the beats of the battle continued unrelentingly, the chants of the Unsullied growing nearer, by the Gods, advancing in _their_ direction now. Randyll watched Dickon fend off several thrusts from one of the foreign spearmen. Their center was actually giving, panicking, as his right was being rolled up, massacred by the hundreds at the hands of the superior enemy cavalry.

A decision had to be made, and now. There was no point in turning the tide of the battle, because it had already turned, long before he'd realized it.

"Dickon," he bellowed as loudly as he could, hoping that the distraction would not be fatal for his son.

"Father," came the cry back. "What...which way..."

"Retreat," he screamed. It seemed the men around him heard and reacted to that dreadful word first, and instantly panic set in from the sound of their commander sounding the alarm. "Retreat," he screamed again, when he saw Dickon's eyes hesitate even as he continued swinging his sword against the oncoming enemy charge, his own son nearly surrounded now in his position further towards the front and by the river. "Retreat now, before it's all lost."

Dickon nodded, and began issuing orders of his own towards the men around him. More panic set in, as Randyll felt the weight of the pushing and the shoving threatening to knock down his horse. But for once panic was good, because panic would save the lives of his men, and preserve his army as well as he could help it.

Swiveling his head towards his left flank, where the battle had initially commenced, he saw Loras Tyrell furiously dashing his sword in every which direction, each swing and parry coming impossibly fast.

"Ser Loras," he screamed, riding in his direction. The young man did not respond, caught up in the heavy fighting as he was, but Randyll could only assume he could hear him through the thunderous din. "Hold the flank, protect the retreat!"

* * *

**Sansa**

The Queen had no urge to wade personally through an ocean of mud and blood. She'd seen enough gaping wounds and horrible broken flesh and organs and all the most disgusting faces of a man's body as she never could have feared to imagine as a child, even in her worst nightmares. Yet the Queen did her part, accompanying the silent sisters and healers as wounded men by the tens, the dozens, the hundreds and thousands, were brought back into camp, touching with her fingers against what parts of their skin remained unblemished, pretending to pray for their well-being and their souls.

Soon enough, the Queen retreated back by her tent, sitting quietly by a small fire, and stared her barren eyes into its flames, seeing nothing, thinking nothing. Some interminable time afterwards, after the sun had set, the slumped bodies of Edric, Brienne, and her sister found their way beside her, collapsing onto small wooden benches without an excessive word from any. If she were so exhausted, Sansa thought, from a day of doing nothing, just how weary could they, her closest and most loyal soldiers and companions be, having stared death in its eyes again, for the second time in about as many moons? From the darkness, a bloodied former red priest stumbled into the fray, carrying two jugs of ale, one in each hand, even as he sipped his own container of wine. Minutes later someone brought a bucket of chicken legs, and they sat, and ate, and drank, and commiserated, all of them knowing the pain and the suffering of the day better than their Queen, whose armor remained clean and unbloodied.

Some time afterwards, one chicken leg and two glasses of ale, the only way Sansa could tell time, several knights came carrying the body of a familiar face, a man whom she supposed had been her first love.

"Ser Loras Tyrell," Brienne asked, recognizing the name which accompanied the body through the sigils on his armor. Arya looked at her knowingly, perhaps expecting Sansa to cry at the sight. Loras's formerly fair hair was dark and bloodied, one side of his face heavily bruised, cheekbone caving in horribly inward into a dark recess, and she could tell from his broken armor that his body had been pierced by swords in many places.

"Send the body to King's Landing," Sansa ordered coldly. "Let the traitors in the Red Keep know truly the price of their treason."

Then she started drinking her third glass of ale, chewing against her lips when she did not drink, ruminating upon the price of her great victory, a battle as fierce and furious as any in the history of the Seven Kingdoms, since the Trident, or the Dance of Dragons, or even Aegon's conquering.

If this was how victory felt, worse than she ever could have imagined, the so called Warrior Queen wondered whether the sting of defeat and a painful death such as the kind Loras Tyrell had suffered might actually be the more tender mercy.


	33. The Fair Ladies of the Reach

**The Hand**

"...what men we have left are..., they're disciplined now," Dickon said rather formally, their war council by their nightly makeshift tents the grimmest affairs since that awful, doomed battle. "We caught twelve deserters today, hung five of them for good measure..."

His son looked unsteadily at the Hand to a captive King, who knew whether Rhaegar even lived at the hands of the Queen's minions after the two devastating victories for her cause?

"You've got the right mind," Randyll allowed his son. "Can't hang them all, not when we need every man now."

"We need to go back," Gunthor Hightower screeched out loud, protesting for what seemed the dozenth time that day, each day longer than the last. "Oldtown lies exposed...my family, we can't just..."

"The south is lost," Randyll exploded in rage, pounding his fist against the table, scabs from the last battle still sticking out of his coarse skin. "Damn it man, don't you understand? And it's because of nitwits like you who panic and throw your little tantrums and distract us from the plan! Don't you think I worry about my family too, my wife, my daughter?"

"We can only hope that the Queen is merciful towards our sisters and mothers," Dickon said calmly, trying to reassure the young lordling, or was he trying to reassure himself? It seemed bitterly ironic that just days before the battle he'd been ruminating the problem of what to do with a captive Queen, were Sansa Stark to be captured alive after the battle had been won. As a hostage she could put a quick end to any who'd dare continue fighting for her cause, except for maybe the Princess Daenerys, another obtuse difficulty. He could use the Stark Queen to trade for Rhaegar's life too, if the Martell bastards who ran Dorne now were reasonable, though he doubted it, and in fact Randyll had already begun to in his head secretly compose the letter he'd send to Starfall, calculated just carefully enough to incite the King's captives into committing regicide, take that problem off his tired hands. Both the royal captives he could forcibly send into the silent sisters, or better yet, use the Queen's son to convince her into abdicating, perhaps to a comfortable life in retirement at Highgarden, burnt flowerbeds or not, then perhaps mollify the Targaryen Princess with a place on her nephew Baelor's regency council.

But indeed it was he who was fleeing with his tail tucked tightly between his legs back to King's Landing, along with a wide bevvy of refugees. Willas Tyrell insisted on staying put to defend his home and castle, much a cripple could do, but at least the man was practical enough to send his young wife and all their households north along the retreat...a retreat which, though orderly now, had been nothing short of chaotically disastrous in its first days.

Though their defeat was far from the worst, barely a rout begun before he'd been able stem the worst and extract a good amount of his army, men soon deserted by the hundreds in the days afterwards, and all the surrounding smallfolk seemed entirely under the spell of the Queen's lies, inciting violence and killing or maiming whatever soldier they could get their grubby hands upon. The Rose Road outside of Highgarden had been lined with the gruesome vigils of nearly a hundred fanatics of the Sparrow order in one place or another, some hung from the trees, others tied to trunks, bruised or beaten, the most unlucky ones spilled in pieces along the road after whatever untold horrors inflicted upon their bodies, or even impaled yet still barely clinging to breath by the time their procession passed them by.

It had taking quite a number of whippings and hangings, both upon his own men as well as the intransigent villagers, in order to regain some semblance of order, and just in time too, their rearguard encountering a band of Lannister scouts, who pursued them north for several days, losing him at least another thousand men to various causes, if not more. Truly, his one salve lay in fleeing the Reach, his homeland which the Queen had somehow inflamed for her cause, the thick cover of the Kingswood finally providing him a sense of sanctuary and air fresh to breath in.

"What now," Mathis Rowan asked gloomily. "If we lose the south, if we lose all our gold and castles and lands, what left, what else is there to fight for?" There was little solace for those who'd survived the battle, knowing that their homes now lay open to the enemy for plunder, that their names and titles may well be attainted if they ultimately lost the war to the Wolf Queen.

"Our lives," Randyll replied defiantly, the kind of defeatist despair from the man giving him an almost visceral disgust and nausea within his nose and stomach, "our names, our legacies, our pride." He looked to Dickon. "Horn Hill will fall. So will Oldtown, or Highgarden, or wherever they choose to besiege. Then all the armies of the North will be unleashed upon us soon. But it's winter, it'll take a long time for Benjen Stark to rally his banners together, even longer still for their march to pass through the Neck. We need to be prepared when that happens, we need the Riverlands, Westerlands, and Vale united and under our control by then. Let the Queen waste her time picking at each castle in the Reach like a useless scab, we still have a war to win, by the Gods!"

"We return to King's Landing," Dickon said, his tone more calmer than his own. It seemed a small blessing that his son was finally learning, through the dregs of defeat, of what it meant to be a man, to lead. If only such experience could still matter after the war. "Lord Kevan will accompany us north, along with three thousand of his men currently defending the capital."

It wasn't a comforting thought, leaving the seat of the seven kingdoms in the hands of Mace Tyrell, but Randyll had to bet that his liege lord, along with his surprisingly savvy daughter, recent mistakes aside could still control an infant child along with an unruly Targaryen Prince whose dreams of his own crown surely had become reborn with his brother's capture and possible demise. He'd speak to Viserys forcefully too, as he had during the last rebellion, hopefully that action taken, along with the fact that their very lives and safety hinged upon his personal success, could keep the capital in order for enough time that he needed.

"Word is that Greyjoy ships belonging to their exiled Prince and Princess have sailed from the Stepstones," Randyll continued. "I've written letters to King Euron, seeking an alliance on land and by sea. I've written to the Freys too, there's promise there. If the Tully's persist in their intransigence, then Walder Frey gets to pick whichever of his brood to rule Riverrun, Harrenhal, what have you. Kevan Lannister can help us rally the loyal houses in the Westerlands, and I'm expecting to hear good news from of the Vale, once we arrive at the capital."

"Aye," Tanton Fossoway snarled, the only one of his brothers to have survived the battle, "war's not over yet. She's tramplin' our lands, let's see how the bitch screams when we do the same t'hers."

Despite the battle lost, a clean battle by most accounts, one which Randyll had no one to blame but himself, the war itself was getting much uglier, evidenced by the bloody landscape his armies traversed along their retreat. And so it was his duty to make it even worse, crueler, bloodier, if they wished to stand any chance of surviving it. Otherwise, he was sure that he, his son, and all the men gathered around him would suffer far worse than the pungent Sparrow proselytizers lying impaled on makeshift stakes, crows already pecking at their eyes whilst they still breathed.

* * *

**Cersei**

"More wine, mother?"

"Please," Cersei muttered unhappily, reaching her glass out, barely spilling the last few droplets in her goblet onto her bedsheets. What was the point, really, better she sleep in wine, there was little else for her to do.

Myrcella obliged her, and then poured a small glass for herself. Her daughter, her beautiful daughter seven and ten now, a woman grown, ought be married already, Cersei groaned to herself for what seemed to be the thousandth time, rather than wasting away in this awful castle, with its awful and boring hostesses.

"Any news?"

"Nothing since the battle," Myrcella replied. Her eyes were hopeful, happy, the poor girl thinking their ordeal over ever since word came of the first siege at Highgarden, then outside their very own walls. And so she remained hopeful, even when they'd become abandoned again, left to rot in shitty wine and shittier company, forgotten by her own niece by marriage, gods be damned.

"Ungrateful cunts."

"Tommen thinks they'll return," her beautiful daughter offered foolishly. "So does Lady Jeyne."

"Yes, well Tommen _would_ agree with whatever_ the Lady Jeyne_ thinks, wouldn't he?"

It bothered her, that as a mother this accursed imprisonment had robbed her of even a pebble's worth of joy when it came to her gentle son's first womanly infatuation. Lady to the Queen or not, a girl like Jeyne Poole from such a poor northern house would've never struck a good match for marriage to a son of Winterfell, even Benjen would've agreed with that. But then what did any of that matter anyway, when they were all stuck to rot in Horn Hill forever, so she'd allowed it, if not indulging it outright. Then came that damned hope, word of her niece's escape, word that the Queen had gained for herself several armies, and by the Gods somehow captured the damned broken dragon in battle!

_Fool of me to think that the girl might think her own blood and family worthy to trade a King for._

"Jeyne did hear some whispers though...but she's not sure, not yet, she doesn't even think the Lady Melessa knows for certain."

"Oh?"

The Poole girl was good for gossip, at least Cersei had that. And Tommen did look happy, it was true, he'd been unnaturally cheerful ever since the arrival of the Queen's former handmaiden from whatever disgrace befell her in the capital. Surely they would get out of this now one day or another, the tides of war did favor their side, then Cersei would have to put an end to the nonsense, she should do so now, but Gods she just had not the energy these days to even get out of her own bed.

_Let them be,_ it was easy to concede. _Let Tommen get his little dicky wet a few dozen times,_ because damned if she gave two shits about the dumb northern girl's chastity or reputation.

"They say there's been a battle in the Redwyne Straits," Myrcella continued, her eyes continually bright and hopeful, as they always beamed with each of the barest tidings of good news their hosts begrudgingly bequeathed them, even if they were continually doomed to disappointment afterwards.

"In the water?"

That seemed odd. She hadn't heard anything of Sansa acquiring a navy, though Cersei could attribute that purely to the negligence and laziness of their eminent hostesses. The stupid girl Talla had whinged for days that her father wouldn't allow her to attend the damned wedding in Oldtown, what with a goddamned war going on and all, as if the pretty pillow biter Tyrell boy hadn't been enough excitement for her feeble brain already.

"Greyjoy pirates," Myrcella continued excitedly, blissfully unaware of her skepticism, as she always was. "They won too, she thinks, destroyed the Redwyne fleet...Jeyne said she heard from one of the stable hands that they've even taken Oldtown harbor!"

_Gods, is she fucking every boy in this castle, highborn or not?_

"Hmmm," Cersei laughed. That was one bloody good picture she could content herself with trying to sleep that night, thousands of ragged Ironborn pirates raping and reaving their way through a city of spoiled cunts. "Good."

_Great_, her cynical nature reminding herself,_ yet another excuse for the bitch Sansa to take a different city, and continue to ignore her own blood. _

_Well, just little Rykka is her blood, but she doesn't know any better._

"Help is coming, mama," her oldest daughter whispered excitedly, clutching her hand tightly, "I know it will!"

_Bless my beautiful daughter, she's far too old to be still so naive. But bless her anyway._

* * *

**Sansa**

"Your Grace," the Queen said politely atop her horse, "my condolences on your great loss."

"My sincerest gratitude for your sentiments," Daenerys Targaryen replied, Sansa could tell she was doing her best to keep her lips from breaking out into the knowing grin her eyes already whispered at her. "My dear Lancel died a warrior, a hero, we shall always remember him, I can only hope our son may live up to the great shadow his father's name has cast."

If she'd shed no tears at the bloodied and nearly mutilated body of Loras Tyrell, Sansa barely felt a flicker of even glee, much less sadness, in hearing of the death of the man who'd, unwittingly or not, helped the traitors in destroying her kingdoms, her mother, her brothers. Nor was she surprised, Daenerys had never expressed to her anything besides retrained contempt upon the mention of her _dearest_ husband, and Sansa would not doubt it if she'd somehow on her own volition talked the man into engaging the Tarly rearguard solely for the purpose of getting the father of her child killed honestly in battle.

"We ought write letters across the realm," Sansa said, taking Edric's hand as he helped her off her horse, an older lord doing the same for the Princess. Roland Crakehall, she would guess, by his age and the sigil of the boar upon his breastplate, "telling of his sacrifice, how he saw through the lies his father fell for, how he tragically died fighting, trying to restore his family's good name before the Crown, before the Gods, may the Mother's mercy smile upon him now, may the Warrior bestow upon him in the Seventh Heaven the nobility he carried in life."

"Indeed," Daenerys agreed, both of them still careful, because most of the observing eyes upon their conversing probably believed, hook line and sinker, their buffet of bits about the Sparrows and the Red God. From what she'd heard, Daenerys had indulged plenty herself into the myth, and they would need to spend several nights recalling what was said, Sansa figured, so that their stories did not contradict each other's in the future.

"Your Grace," the older man bellowed at her. There was a knowing wink in his eye, and Sansa wondered whether she'd overdone her salutations towards the late Lancel Lannister, whom anyone besides an impressionable teenaged girl would recognized as the stupidest of fools.

"Lord Roland, I presume?"

"It's an honor, to serve my Queen. And apologies for the delay, we hastened as fast we could towards Highgarden, we did not know you were to march south so quickly from that siege to the next."

"It is no problem, my good lord," Sansa said, graciously accepting his regret, "no war can be conducted perfectly, I know that well myself by now."

"Ah, but you would have the rest of us fooled," the old man said with a hearty laugh, "two great victories, three if ye count the skirmishes by Nightsong. Seems you didn't need us all, this young coming of Daeron the Great," he finished, giving Edric what Sansa recognized as a respectful nod, soldier to soldier, and regardless of age.

"Yes, we did win," Sansa agreed solemnly, "but only because we had no other choice. We need you now, Lord Roland, Princess, and because I've yet had the chance to do so in person, as your Queen I do now both command, _and_ do humbly beg, that you aid in our cause."

"Aye, yer cause is ours," Roland answered, dropping to one knee, the Princess following his example, "and our duty."

"And our promise," Daenerys continued, her intense purple eyes, so much more vigorous, more purposeful than that of her brothers' met her, "shall be kept. I know truly the stakes now, my dear Queen and friend. To have loved, and to have lost my love to such horrid infidels, such traitors, I understand like _few_ others our common cause, the stakes which we fight for."

They'd said, when the Iron Throne had been hers and the council _her_ Council, that the girl had play acted in some mummer's troupe in Essos for a number of years. Surely that was true, because if Sansa didn't know any better, she would guess that Daenerys Targaryen loved Lancel Lannister with ten times the fury she did Trystane.

_Or Edric._

_I love him, don't I?_

_I need him at the very least. So much, and not just because he's apparently as splendid in war as he is in bed._

_Is there really that much of a difference, between that, and love? _Did she still remembered how it felt, to be wrapped and enveloped entirely in Trystane's arm, when she'd been what seemed now a completely different person?

"Your brave Lyonel," Sansa asked, not seeing the child accompanying the Princess, "I pray he is safe, and well?"

"Safely ensconced in Crakehall," Daenerys answered, this time the sincerity in her eyes Sansa could only guess was genuine. "Some say Lord Roland's castle is sturdier than Casterly Rock...my own ancestor, the Princess Rhaena, took shelter there during an uprising of the Faith Militant."

"The war is in our hands now," Sansa said, taking Daenerys's hands, unable to help conceal her concern for the infant boy, or her sadness that his mother had to part with her only child for so long, indefinitely so long as the war continued waging. "We must seize it and choke the life out of our enemies, so that we do not have to worry endlessly for our loved ones."

"Horn Hill is a day's march away," Edric said solemnly. "I don't plan for it to be a long siege, but it won't be easy either."

They had to take better care towards showing their affection now, much of these western lords were more properly religious than the Dornish, or even the marchers, and while they could tolerate some mischief from their rightful Queen as they would an equivalent King, they'd have no choice, Sansa would see to that, she had to be careful not to flout her paramour too much about, not when men like Roland Crakehall might truly believe to the last letter in the pages of the Seven Pointed Star he claimed to be fighting for.

The Princess's eyebrows raised in recognition of something, and she looked towards Edric even as she maintained her grip on Sansa's hands. "Come," she said excitedly, "I arrive bearing gifts, despite my tardiness."

* * *

"...you told them what," Sansa asked, her own face blushing at the Princess's words.

"I'd had more than my share of wine that night," Daenerys confessed, eyeing guiltily the dirt upon which their feet walked. "And the Lady Oakheart...the Gods bless her, she's a bit...simple...and _so_ proper." The woman could not continue further, before breaking out in laughter, Sansa feeling the bemusement on Edric's face as he followed them at a respectful distance, the rest of their procession far behind, so as to allow the two royals Wolf and Dragon some time alone to reacquaint themselves with the other.

"I...," Daenerys giggled again, "I told her that they laid my brother Rhaegar naked upon a table, legs hanging limp, the rest of his body as stiff as a sheet of board. And then they laid my brother Viserys naked atop of him, his face towards Rhaegar's feet. And then the priestesses began chanting the name of my father Aerys, singing his praises, whilst my brothers...while they...they...they wrapped mouths around each other and...," Daenerys said, feigning the worst fragility, "they...they sucked each other off until...to...satisfaction..."

Sansa choked and chortled, by the Gods, if this was how Rhaegar intended to assassinate her, by laughing to death, so be it, it was far from the worst way to die.

"And she believed it?"

"Every word," Daenerys said, the grin never leaving her clever face. Ahead of them, she saw a familiar shadow looming against an odd looking wagon.

"Ser Sandor!"

"Yer Grace," the old warrior bowed, looking at her curiously, probably wondering why his Queen and liege Princess were so chock full of laughs as they approached. "In a good mood, I see, after a good slaughter."

"In a good mood to see you're safe and unharmed. I'd feared the worst, after hearing about Lord Tyrion and my sister."

"Aye," Sandor growled, Sansa remembering how he'd taken the same begrudging tone when she'd insisted on knighting him for Tyrion's sake, despite his most fervent protests, "they got what they deserved, didn't they, the Martells?"

_Does he know,_ Sansa gasped, before calming herself. _Of course he doesn't. And if he suspects, he won't be able to prove it, no one ever would._

"Sometimes," she said, "the Gods bring forth the justice which eludes the grasps of men." Her eyes turned to his vests and cape. "I see that our Princess made you take the black?"

"Only if you're prepared to release him from his vows immediately after," Daenerys answered, the Hound man grunting in response.

"And you," the Queen pointed an accusing finger at the fat man they told her was Randyll Tarly's eldest son, "you...you know my cousin Jon?"

"I do, Your Grace," the boy answered nervously. "He's...he's actually a good friend of mine." Instantly Sansa regretted her mean tone, he'd been banished to the Wall by his tyrannical father years before the great treason, hadn't he? If anything, they were both victims to Lord Tarly's cruelty. She had to be careful, not to project her rage upon those undeserving of it, especially when they were allies for the picking. Or tools of convenience, wasn't it all the same, really?

"I'm glad," Sansa replied, her tone softer. "He doesn't deserve to be there. Neither do you. Neither does Lord Tyrion." Thoughts of those golden days with the Half Man advising her, speaking in her ears wisdom she could barely comprehend at the time, nearly brought tears to her eyes, as did the reminder that, even placed upon his frozen exile, her former and most loyal advisor was still constantly thinking of ways he could continue helping and serving his Queen, sacred vows of the Watch be damned.

"The plan is simple," Edric said. "I know of a secret gate to the castle, facing the hill behind it."

"Aye," Samwell nodded eagerly, "the Rocky Gate, that is."

"The problem is, the Lady Talla...your sister, knows I know of it too. Which means its been well guarded days before we besieged the castle the first time."

That was odd, she didn't hear that before. How would Talla Tarly know of Edric's secret knowledge? And how did Edric come to know of it in the first place, she hadn't asked him before.

"Well, we'd been planning on stopping home anyway," Samwell said, his nervousness along with a disconcerting stutter returning with his grasping breath, "Lord Tywin had his orders for us but...I'm to guess you know them already."

"Your men need to slaughter all the guards by and above the Rocky Gate," Edric commanded, the voice of a man accustomed to leading by now, a voice other men would follow, because of his reputation, growing by the day. "That way we can take the castle and rescue the innocents your father's kept hostage, with the least amount of blood shed."

"Lord Samwell," Sansa said, placing her hands comfortingly upon his shoulders, looking him in his eyes, "get your mother and sister to safety, anyone you care for, servants, nursemaids, Septa's and old maesters and the like. I promise you, no women or children in the castle will come to harm, so long as I can help it. But you know fighting men can be unpredictable, so do what you can for them before the fighting begins."

"I...," Samwell said, looking down for a moment's pause, "I...I appreciate it, Your Grace. It's my duty, to my Lord Commander...and to my Queen. But, I do love my mother, she and Talla, they've truly done no wrong, I think they would have done their best to make your aunt and cousins as...as comfortable as they could have, I assure you."

"I believe you, Samwell." Retreating from the man, she instinctively stepped next to Edric, avoiding the urge to lean her body against his. "The sooner we get this dreadful business over with, the sooner we can ensure to the safety of all our innocent loved ones."

_So long as they didn't interfere._

"If it comes to a choice," she instructed Edric later that day, as their armies waited while Samwell and his merry brethren rode ahead, pretending at escaping from their looming assault, "between my blood and his...well...you know what to do."

* * *

**Edric**

The whole raid ended as easy as he could have ever hoped for. Not that it wasn't bloody, the men of the Watch, real or not, Edric couldn't tell, or care at this point, having left a bloody mess of bodies in the stairways leading up the Rocky Gate into the castle, and his soldiers stormed inside the manor with little adversity after seeing the torch waved upon the above wall. The castle penetrated, the alert raised, the few hundred men who remained guarding Tarly's keep stormed down haphazardly to fend off the attack, but it was too late, Edric having snuck in hundreds himself to fend off the defenders. Both Sansa and the Princess trusted the brute Clegane for some reason, apparently having been vouched for by the absent Tyrion Lannister, so he sent him at once to secure and protect the Lady of Winterfell and the Stark children. To Brienne, whom he trusted, he sent to find Samwell and keep Talla and her family safe, relieved that the Queen had ordered their care and preservation, though Ned wondered if Sansa would be so merciful had she known of his...his history with Talla.

Aside from its barest bones, Edric had barely remembered the details to the castle's rooms and walls, its carpeting, drapery, the statues and paintings, having snuck out in the dead of night, at about the same time he'd led this raid tonight. Not for revenge at Talla, he kept telling himself, even as he continued plunging his sword into the chests of her knights and men, and then a few more stubborn servants after they'd killed most of the soldiers. More and more men continued storming up from the Rocky Gate, and satisfied that he'd lost but a dozen men so far, he ordered them to advance and open the main gates. Trumpets blew before dawn, announcing the arrival of a Queen and a Royal Princess of the Queen's rival house, strange times indeed.

Seeing few of the Westerlands knights and lords besides Daenerys, Edric allowed his lips to indulge a few additional seconds as he kissed the Queen's hand. They'd brought Talla and her mother out, she was watching them, he realized, the strange and ancient pangs of bitterness and jealousy ringing through his lungs. Then came the Lady Cersei, and Edric watched the Queen embrace the older woman as closely as she'd embraced the Princess Arya, in their first private moment together in Starfall, then each of her cousins in turn.

"My dear aunt," the Queen gasped, as she moved from one relation to the next, "never could I have imagined encountering a Lady of Winterfell this far south."

As his heart warmed at the reunions, he couldn't help but see Talla in the corner of his eyes, hunched over by her hearth, sobbing softly at the brute invasion of her home, her mother's embrace doing little to comfort the young woman.

Edric couldn't help but pity her plight...and yet...

_She's not as pretty as I remember her._

_It doesn't change what I felt for her then._

_It also doesn't change what I feel for Sansa now._

With purpose, he returned his attention to his Queen.

_What if she orders me to take her head, promises be damned? _ What would he do? Ned had a feeling that the ghost of Arthur Dayne would not be pleased by his answer.

_My valiant uncle Arthur, who retained his name and honour merely because his royal charges bothered to bloody the hands lesser servants at murdering women and children, rather than ask him to perform the deed._

"Your Grace, Horn Hill is yours. What's to be done with it, I await your orders."

It was an oddest scene in the Great Hall, a Queen who'd been betrayed by its hostesses's husband and father, a mother and a sister betrayed by their son and brother, a woman betrayed by a man whom she thought loved her, and finally a Queen who had little idea of that last conundrum of conflicting loyalties.

_No, not conflicted,_ he told himself. _There's no conflict, there hasn't been for a long time now._

Except, the most morbid part of his mind couldn't help but continue fixating upon what would happen, if Sansa were to order him to take Talla's head, slaughter her like they did Quentyn and Arianne Martell. He'd follow her orders to his dying day...yet...yet what if? What if Ice struck Sansa instead? Would his men remain loyal to him? What about the Princess?

Resisting the urge to shake his head and the accompanying treasons out of his body, he nevertheless fixed his eyes upon his Queen's soft blue irises, forgetting all of the dangerous thoughts which Edric soon convinced himself had never poisoned his mind in the first place.

"Your Grace," the fat Tarly boy lumbered over to the Queen, dropping on both knees, tears flowing freely from his eyes unashamed. "You promised, you said you'd show mercy."

"Mercy," the Lady of Winterfell snarled angrily, spitting at the young man. She was not far aged, but the years were nevertheless evident in the lines of her face, her beauty a harsh one, cold like the Northern wilds from whence she came. "Where was mercy for me, for my children..."

"Jeyne! Tommen? Is that you?"

Seeing the latest arrivals to the hall, a slim girl with brown hair accompanying the Queen's missing cousin, Edric watched as Sansa embraced tearfully Tommen Stark and the woman whom he knew to be one of her oldest friends. His heart would burst with happiness for them, if it weren't for the quivering weeping noise determined to pierce his ears from behind his left shoulder.

"Ned...," the softest whisper assaulted at him, "please..."

His body stiffened, he determined to ignore it, yet it continued.

"Please Ned, we never meant them any harm, we treated them well, I _beg_ you..."

To his immense dread, the Queen turned towards him, and the broken woman behind his back. Sansa Stark strode across the Great Hall as if it were her own, as she had all the might and fighting prowess of the Conqueror himself, and Edric did not realize that his jaw had dropped slackly and dumbly, until she took his hands, and leaned forward to kiss him as passionately and as furiously as, well...their first nights spent together in Starfall. Unable to help himself, forgetting their vast and varied audience, his hands wrapped around her back, pulling in his beloved tight against his body as if no one else in the world existed, or mattered. As their tongues twisted and turned within each other's, he kept thinking that the Queen had to release him soon, for propriety's sake, if nothing else, so that he, and she, could catch their breaths, but still she refused to give up their embrace.

When Sansa finally pulled away, Edric saw the dumbstruck eyes and jaws of everyone gathered in the hall. The older Stark girl, the blonde one Myrcella, stared at them joyously as if she'd seen just her first dragon, while the younger girl Rykka looked abashedly at her mother, whom Edric swore wore a satisfied smirk upon her lips. Then he saw Sansa's friend Jeyne beaming in her direction out of sheer joy and the purest happiness, and it was only then that Edric noted how the girl's hands were clutched tightly against Tommen Stark's, a golden haired boy who looked to be close to his own age.

"Oh Sansa," Jeyne exclaimed, running towards her friend, but not before examining him with a curious and appraising look, "I'm so happy for you!"

"I'm so happy for you too," the Queen replied, though her voice remained lowered, never losing its composure, "how do you like your new title?"

"New title," the girl asked, twisting her neck in confusion.

"You haven't heard," Sansa asked, pretending to match the girl's confusion. "The establishment of the newest Great House in the Reach? House Poole, of Highgarden? And its Lady, the Lady Jeyne, the Lady of Highgarden?"

Forgetting Talla's pathetic whimpers for a moment, Edric laughed nervously. "To be fair, my lady," he said to the befuddled girl, her plight turned to plunder within minutes, "we still have to _take_ Highgarden, which we _will_, I assure you. But it's not taken yet. But it will be, I promise."

"And Oldtown too," the Queen continued, returning to the Lady Cersei, and her eldest daughter next to her, "so that we can restore the Hightower and the holiest of cities to its rightful heir...the Lady Myrcella Stark, of the Hightower."

"I...," it was the mother who spoke, her joyous tears seemingly outnumbering the ones shed in mourning and trauma behind him, "Your Grace, I can't begin to give thanks..."

"There's no need," Sansa whispered quietly to her beautiful aunt, the seeds of her rescue planted by Beric years before, who hadn't lived to see its fruition. "We're _family_, my Lady. We're _wolves_, you and I, though you weren't born one, you've _earned_ it through so many years of winter, of suffering, for the sake of our shared name. We take care of each other, we watch each other's back. I apologize it took so long, a war can never go the way you'd perfectly like, but I assure you, you were never forgotten in my heart, or that of my sister's."

Again the two women embraced as if they were long lost sisters, even though Sansa had confided in him that she'd never been particularly close to her aunt. Absence and captivity certainly changed one's heart's desire, Edric thought.

"Horn Hill was your prison," the Queen continued, "your torment. What do you wish to be done with it?"

"Burn it," the Lady Cersei said without a moments pause, Talla collapsing upon the floor before she could continue her next words, "I don't care, burn it to the ground."

At first Edric was surprised the woman wouldn't bequeath it to her younger son. Then he realized the Queen's genius, understood by her aunt, that Lord Tommen Stark already had his own castle, were the affections between he and the newest Lady of Highgarden true...and were he able to successfully conclude that particularly siege.

_"Ned...please..."_

"Very well," Sansa nodded solemnly. "Lady Brienne, take care to strip the castle of all its furnishings, its treasures, its gold, down to the last chair, down to the last pot and spoon. The people have suffered for the crimes of their lords, and we must ensure that the people...and the common spearmen and archers who risk lives and limb for our cause, do not find themselves wanting in the peace to come."

Returning to Talla and her mother, and it was only now that Edric saw the curious gaze from the Princess Targaryen, silent through all the early morning, purple eyes shifting bemusedly between himself, to the Queen, to Talla, then back all over again.

"Lady Melessa, Lady Tarly," his Queen continued, "you will accompany us to Oldtown."

He felt her tug almost violently at his hand, nearly ripping his arm from its socket, as the Queen practically dragged him over to where they both faced the two cowering women. Gripping his palm, squeezing it nearly to the point where she drew pain, the Queen looked back to her aunt and cousin.

"The Greyjoys have already taken the city, but alas, I'm afraid the Hightowers are a large and pestilent brood, we'll have quite a few usurpers to kill before we can restore the Lady Myrcella to her birthright. Then," Sansa returned her gaze to the two Tarly women, Edric fearful that the fire in her eyes may match even the cruelty of King Maegor, "you will sail to Starfall. I'm afraid your castle will no longer be a castle by then, but_ I trust_ that my Lord Edric will find suitable and comfortable castles for your stays, after the war is over."

As he breathed his secret sigh of relief, Edric saw in the corner of his eye Samwell visibly doing the same. Then, daring to look his Queen in her eyes for the first time since taking Horn Hill, he saw nothing but ice, taunting him, almost taking a perverse glee in his discomfort, and the boy they once called Ned could not help but look perversely forward to their night together, once away from all prying eyes, his own preservation be damned. The man they called Lord Edric nodded at his Queen, coughing nervously.

"Starfall," he began, "or...or Sunspear, or Yronwood, you'll be happy there Ta...Lady Talla, Lady Melessa, you'll be safe, I promise you."

It was done, thankfully, and Edric could thank all the stars and suns and gods of all the continents that it hadn't gone worse. But even as they walked away, he felt the Queen finally release his hands from her iron grip, and watched anxiously as Sansa retraced her steps back to the Tarly women.

"Oh, Lady Talla?"

"Your Grace?" The answer came in the weakest whimper.

"I regret to inform you of your widowhood. Ser Loras's death was a tragedy indeed...I know it's no great comfort, but be assured that I do pray to the Mother for the soul of your beloved husband, as I do for yours."


	34. Falling Star

**Sansa**

_"...but to whom do the Gods speak to? How can we men, humble in our limited knowledge, our limited wisdom, even seek to understand their infinite knowledge, their infinite wisdom?"_

Holding up with one triumphant hand the small, worn tome she'd borrowed from the Starry Sept, feeling the temptation to burn the damned thing once the farce was over, Sansa bellowed out as loud as she could her sermon delivered to the gathered of tens of thousands in the Great Square of Oldtown, thousands more crammed into every window and balcony to witness the tirades of the conquering queen.

"The answer, as always, lies within the pages of the Seven Pointed Star." Turning her eyes down to the parchment, the holiest of Queens wondered if they'd believe her if she'd simply made up the passage, had a convenient one not been found. _ "Look not to the heavens, but to the grounds, the whispers of the winds, billowing blades of grass, see the flow of the rivers, the dust in the desert, the melting dew in the moors. Heed the wisdom of our ancestors, those who came before us, their stories, the lessons they share, for the past is carved in stone, irrevocable, as is the will of the Gods."_

Waving the book high in the air, feeling the pleasant sensation of the warm southern sun bathing against her skin, concealed underneath a modest, cream colored silken dress, the Queen beckoned at the nobles bound and gagged on the steps beside her, then screamed her next words as loudly as she could.

"The will of the Gods! Does the Seven Pointed Star not tell us that the Gods convey to us their will by the day, by the second, by each interminable pause between the rise and fall of each sun? If the past is as solid and irremovable than the stone of the Hightower, then it is irrefutable that the very Gods themselves decided all the wars of the past, they who created and bequeathed the Iron Throne first to House Targaryen, then to House Stark. It was they who created the dragons, and they whose will saw them die to the last.

See the cowering sinners before you who have tried to usurp the throne then, through treachery, through heresy! See the pretender king Rhaegar, the arch-rapist, who was cast down by the Gods thrice in war, who now sits a prisoner of his rightful Queen! Would the Gods allow his captivity, were he their favored champion, this war itself their divine trial, to reveal their will to the realms of men? Would the Gods allow the defeats and surrenders of your lords, Hightowers and Redwynes, heirs to hallowed and ancient houses, had they been true to the faith, their traditions and bonds, had they not played their games of fealty and thrones by not just wagering for themselves your lives, but your very souls for their personal gain?"

The crowd moved, it _felt_ vividly her every word, Sansa could tell, there was a similar fervor in their eye directed at the captive lords just as the mob in King's Landing had cast upon her and her mother during the High Sparrow's harangue. There was this fact too, that the Sparrows had originated in these very streets, the thousands of the spellbound men and women listening to her had been the very same ones who'd followed, empowered, and joined the wretched order in the first place. But then, times change, the mob was as impatient as it was stupid, and all they needed, as Sansa had seen firsthand, was a push from any deep throated fool convincing enough, much less a conquering and triumphant Queen.

"Would not I have received my crown, were it not the will of the Gods? Would I have not triumphed in war against the agents of the foreign god of fire, were it not the will of our true Gods, destined as they are to prevail over all pretenders forevermore? Would these traitors and heretics kneel prostrate before you this day, had the Gods not already determined their verdicts upon their guilty souls?"

The crowd screamed back at her, not in waves like a slow tide, but in unison, a solid wall of maelstrom crushing all stubborn enough to still stand opposed. The Queen stretched her arm even higher, if it were possible, as if her precious little book may touch the heavens themselves.

"Yet if I have fallen, that was the will of the Gods too. The Gods cast their chosen Queen off her throne and made her suffer, so that she may know what it's like to suffer. They cast her out of the capital and into the realm, so that she may see, hear, listen..._understand_, the people whom the Gods chose her to rule over, in their stead...the great peoples whom they have commanded her to embody through her faith, her charity. They set her through the trials of war and blood, so that she may bear witness to its horrors, the true price of these games your lords play when they forget their vows of fealty. They saw her punished, by the vilest heretics of the falsest Gods, so that she may see the true threat the enemies of the Faith pose to her realms, her peoples, so that she may remember and stand on guard and never rest a single day in her vigilance."

The crowd stood still, solemn, and if she burst into tears now, Sansa knew they were sure to weep with her.

"The Gods made me suffer, that is true. It was their will that I suffer, not for me, but for you, because they chose me, I understand that now. Few have been so chosen, I don't think, through the course of the Seven Kingdoms, Jaehaerys the Conciliator, whose childhood was ripped through by war and intrigue...Aegon the Unlikely, the forgotten heir, free to roam the Seven Kingdoms as a hedge knight...Eddard the Just, who saw a tyrannical crown nearly rip away his entire family, understanding in his honorable and brave soul how the highest born of men can be treated no less cruelly than the common farmer, who suffers for the sins of their lords.

Let this be a new era then. Let my suffering not go to waste, but to help my people, like those blessed few who came before me! Let us not be led astray by those who claim to speak for the Gods, but let us heed the wisdom of those whom the Gods, through their actions, chose to carry their voices in our world! Let us forget the lies told to us, let us wash away with blood those who betrayed us, let it be known that no longer will the many suffer because of the few!"

The near maniacal cheers resumed, and with her one nod, Edric began, swinging Ice through the head of first Leyton Hightower, then his son Baelor. Then Sandor Clegane hacked off the head of Paxter Redwyne. And so it went, each execution eliciting louder screams of elation from the crowd, feeding their wretched souls upon the blood of the condemned, until there was no Hightower man alive over the age of seven and ten. Paxter and his men had to die too, though his eldest and newlywed son Horas remained in the dungeons. Oldtown's future was sealed in blood, but they told her that the young heir, now Lord of the Arbor, was quite popular with the commonfolk back on the island, so they still needed to decide just how to handle its governance, considering the Queen wished to continue drinking her Arbor Gold without interruption through the duration of the war and her reign afterwards.

"That was quite the speech," Daenerys said admiringly, as they walked up the circular stairs of the Hightower, walls shuddering with movement as Ironborn pirates picked out every treasure and furnishing in the ancient castle, same as how they'd pillaged Horn Hill before wrecking it. "Wish I had something like that to orate, in my old days in the theatre."

"I'd hope not," Sansa said with a laugh. "I just walked in front of thousands of people and practically screamed to them that I was a golden god, before executing nearly the entirety of the family which ruled them for thousands of years. Think any character like that would be quite insane, in your plays."

"Oh, I've acted my share of the insane," the princess replied with a wink, sidestepping a young Greyjoy king gleefully running down the stairs carrying a giant golden vase. "Do you think he'll do it? Build that Sept on Pyke?"

True to their word, the Ironborn had refrained from raiding the city, simply blockading the harbor and defeating the few defensive sorties from the last remaining bannermen in Oldtown, before opening the gates for her armies. And so they were taking what they'd been promised for their restraint, all the treasures of House Hightower...enough to mollify their unruly allies so that they could also forget in their lust for treasure another promise Sansa had wrested, for the apparently newly converted King and Queen would erect a great Sept on their home island, upon their return and the defeat of their uncle, perceived by the crowd as yet another miracle to mark her miraculous and blessed reign.

"I doubt it," the Queen answered, shaking her head. "I hope not, to be honest. It'd be a waste of all this plunder." Arriving at the top of the tower, the two women strode out to a small balcony overlooking the city. Gripping her hands against the stone, shaking as she looked down up past the tumultuous air between her dizzying height and all the world below, the realness and honesty of such great distances unfooled by the trick of her orations, Sansa thought it time to bring up a difficult question. "Edric and I will be returning to Starfall soon. We'll have a lot of...guests, I suppose, to bring back and situate in Dorne after this."

"They live," Daenery said coldly, Sansa sensing that perhaps behind her beautiful facade lay an even more ruthless heart than her own. "Many of us can't say the same. They'll thank you for your mercy, if not today, if not tomorrow, then one day, I'm certain of it."

They spoke of all the Hightower and Redwyne daughters and brides and children, along with the Tarly's, all of whom she did pity, that they would have to suffer for the duration of this war, perhaps the rest of their lives, for the crimes of their husbands and fathers. If only the Water Gardens remained, the once formerly beautiful gardens would provide a fitting sanctuary for the refugees, but such was the cost of war, in gold, and in souls. At least they did not need to fear for their lives like aunt Cersei and her cousins, Sansa had assured them, they were not hostages, there was no need for that now, with the war practically won...so long as they remained loyal to her and dared not ever betray her again.

"The army will march back north to Highgarden and complete the siege. Edric and I will meet them at Lady Jeyne's new castle." Carefully observing the way the Princess breathed, Sansa continued. "I don't except your brother Rhaegar to be alive by then."

The Targaryen Princess stared into the distance, eyes following a distant ship tracing its way from the harbor back east towards Dorne, or perhaps the great cities of Essos beyond, grand palaces where she'd once found sanctuary herself.

"I have a feeling," Daenerys began slowly, "that I will be the last dragon, after all of this is said and done."

"And your son."

"And yours," she reminded Sansa, who had honestly forgotten. The shorter woman turned back at the Queen, neck raised slightly to meet her eyes. "Do you miss him?"

"I suppose I haven't been the best mother," Sansa chuckled, "have I?"

"You haven't had much of a choice," Daenerys said, surprisingly coming to her defense.

"I do worry about Baelor," she said, this time it was the Queen's turn to be lost in contemplation, "alone in the capital with all its vipers."

"I would worry about Viserys." The silver haired Princess sighed. "I've no wish to see Rhaegar again, I've nothing to say to him either. Do whatever you have to do...or want to do, it matters not to me. But after that, Viserys could only believe that he stands second in line to the throne."

"It's concerning indeed." Nor was Daenerys's statement news to her, she had already taken the time to wonder what could happen, were the rogue Prince's handlers to lose their handle on the wretched dragonspawn...

And would she be secretly relieved, if they did let loose an untamed dragon one last time?

"I'm sending Samwell Tarly back north," Sansa quickly changed her tact, "with some of the Ironborn fleet. It'll be a treacherous journey, but I trust he will survive it." Her breathing paused, as she wondered the best way to broach the subject. "If Tywin Lannister is keen to stick his fingers into the currents of the realm, then I'd be curious to see just how far he'd be willing to test the waters."

"You're seeking his help?"

Sansa nodded. "I'd suspect he could have an influence on things, before the war's end. Or afterwards too."

_The man who betrayed your father. The man who ordered the slaughter of your young niece and nephew._

"I'm no strangers to Lannisters," Daenerys said after yet another long pause. "I married one, after all, and I'm the mother to the heir to Casterly Rock...the _future_ of House Lannister."

"Consider Lyonel the Lord of Casterly Rock," Sansa said, watching the sun approach its nadir along the calm, blue horizon, "Kevan Lannister's title has been attainted, by my words to you."

"Casterly Rock is his home," Daenerys said, letting breath a dormant fire hidden beneath her throat, "it's his _only_ home, and his birthright. I'd think that...Lord Tywin ought understand, whatever befalls him in the wars to come, that he forfeited his rights to Casterly Rock when ordered the murder of two innocent children twenty years before. That whatever atonement he's already made, whatever atonement he could further make...nothing could ever change that fact."

"I understand," Sansa nodded, agreeing. "Casterly Rock is Lord Lyonel's home. As it is _yours_, too, as it will remain for all time to come."

* * *

Lone torches lit barren walls within the empty chambers of the ancient Hightower. Slowly, Sansa led the two women down the corridors, one torch in hand, towards a connecting tunnel to the rooms which typically sheltered more distant Hightower relations, modest quarters she had not allowed the Ironborn to loot. The new heirs to the castle would have to dwell here for the time being, until the wealth of House Stark of Oldtown became newly restored again.

"Quite the prize, isn't it," Sansa laughed, "an empty old castle?"

"Quite," her aunt muttered bitterly. In the short time they'd become reacquainted, Sansa had learned already that the Lady Cersei was not one for excessive gratitude.

"It won't remain empty forever," Sansa said, looking to the younger girl who stood to become one of the most powerful women in Westeros, should their war prevail.

"I'm sure we'll figure it out, mama," Myrcella said happily. Her cousin seemed to be the opposite of her mother, a pure soul, always joyful, always optimistic, never a foul word or mannerism uttered or shown.

"You won't have to wait long," Sansa said, turning to face them as she placed the torch into its holder inside a small solar, where several of the serving staff were setting up their supper and wine. They sat, and the Queen waited until they were alone. "The Ironborn have all your treasures now, much of your gold."

"Very generous," Cersei grumbled. "I suppose it's the price to pay for a city."

"Do you really think I would allow the slayings of my father and brother to go unpunished," Sansa said, the marked change in tone astonishing both women, even the more cynical Lady of Winterfell.

"You mean to turn on them," her aunt replied viciously, grasping quickly enough her intent, "is that what you're saying...Your Grace?"

"Theon Greyjoy and Yara Greyjoy are traitors," Sansa said coldly, as if pronouncing the sentence from atop the Iron Throne itself. "Every single Greyjoy is a traitor, every man or woman who fought my father and Lord Stannis in Rhaegar's Rebellion are not only traitors, they are kingslayers, all of them, so they will suffer the fate of traitors one day. Not now, while we need them. And perhaps they won't suffer too badly, given their aid to our cause. But trust me, Lady Cersei, Lady Myrcella, you know as well as I that the North remembers."

"Aye," Cersei Lannister said, laughing in a most unladylike manner, having been thrust from captivity to riches to poverty and back to the prospect of riches all over again. "Oh, I remember too, Your Grace, if you ever need any help remembering, don't you forget about your Aunt Cersei."

Sansa nodded approvingly. "Until then, I need the two of you to remain strong, rule the city, keep Oldtown together. I've asked the Princess Daenerys to leave Lord Roland and the Crakehall banners here, to serve as your muscle."

"I know old Roland," Cersei said dismissively. "Him I can work, I think."

"I know you were not particularly fond of the North," Sansa continued, shrugging off the woman's weak protestations. "I know my Uncle Benjen surely misses his dear family, but I also know he will understand the importance his children have now in the south. Whether you wish to return to Winterfell after the war, or remain south with your children...that's a decision you'll have to come to terms with together, as a family. But until then, your daughter needs you."

"We won't let you down, Your Grace," Myrcella said assuredly, looking to her mother in support. "I promise."

When she next spoke, the Queen addressed her cousin directly. "You saw the mob out there today, Myrcella. You saw how I used them, how I played them."

"Yes, disgusting people," Cersei said, nearly spitting up her food at their mention.

"Yes, disgusting," Sansa agreed, "dirty, vicious, cruel, greedy, bloodthirsty, inconstant, short-sighted, unreliable..."

_They killed my mother. For no good reason, for no good reason at all._

"...yet," Sansa continued dutifully, "they are your greatest allies here, more crucial than any great house you may rally to your side. So you _have_ to work with them, play them, manipulate them."

"How," Myrcella asked doubtfully. Sansa wondered just how well the innocent young girl could accomplish such things herself...which was exactly why she'd invited her mother to supper alongside her daughter.

"It becomes easy enough. You listen to what they want. You promise to give it to them, and they'll be eating out of your hand. If you can't deliver your promises, then lie to them, distract them, make up a new enemy for them to direct their ire towards, anyone but yourselves. Don't be satisfied with just telling them what they want, _invent_ what they want next, in your mind, and tantalize them with it, dazzle them, blind them with your vision, your imagination. But you can't rule on empty promises forever, so keep them well fed, feed their greed, their licentiousness, make sure they're happy, but not too happy, so as to not need your rule, to not crave for themselves your love, as their mother, the mother of your people."

"I understand," the innocent girl said, lips trembling, though Sansa noticed it was her aunt who had stopped eating, even drinking, following instead her every word.

"Remember," the Queen finished, eyes placed keenly upon both women, "you'll have enemies here. As outsiders, as usurpers, intruders. As women, who would presume to usurp the thousand year old rule of men. Don't be afraid to be cruel, but don't overdo the cruelty, especially in the eyes the people. Because however many enemies you incur...so long as you have the people eating out of your hands...and there's more than enough people here for you to work with..._you will always outnumber your enemies._"

If only the Littlefinger had taught her this sooner, the Queen mulled, walking by herself to find Edric, hoping that he could help cast out the bitter taste in her mouth.

* * *

**Edric**

When he'd been younger, Ned Dayne always dreamed of bringing Talla to his family's castle, show her his ancestral home, the rooms and courtyards he grew up in. Dawn, the greatest and most famed sword in all the histories and lore of the Seven Kingdoms. Yet, this was not the homecoming he'd ever imagined for the woman he once wished to take as his bride, arriving up the Torentine in a separate ship, confined, guarded by knights, escorted to a distant tower before he accompanied his Queen inside for her royal return to Starfall.

She'd same not a word to him about Talla, but Edric could sense she knew...well, something, he would not be surprised if the woman could read his mind, into the depths of his very soul. If so, could she guess at what he was about to do this morning?

He walked alone to the retrieve the great sword, mindful of the heavy burden of Ice already hanging from his belt, bloodied from the toils of both the battle, and perhaps the most gratuitous set of executions seen in the Seven Kingdoms since the era of the Mad King, or before that. No one had granted him the privilege of taking Dawn, of wielding it, of calling himself the Sword of the Morning, but what did it matter anyway, what honor was left in his heart, after he'd broken the most sacred bonds of guest rights on his Queen's behalf, against his liege lord and his family, no less, after he'd taken captive into his castle the woman he'd once loved, after destroying the only home Talla had ever known?

The day was cloudy, windy, the ocean's waves especially tumultuous, and Edric was glad of it. They were gathered in a circle by a small ledge atop a set of cliffs, where one false step would doom the strongest of men crashing down into the rocks below, wrung to death slowly inside the most violent eddies below the walls of Starfall. The Queen stood furthest from the edge, next to her sister, her friend the Lady Jeyne, her old and faithful former Queensguard, Ser Balon Swann, newly arrived from his release in the Black Cells, and Obara and Nymeria Sand, the two woman who'd kept to the two naked and shivering prisoners lying pathetically in the middle of the circle.

Edric stepped and took his place in the empty slot opposite his Queen, closest to the waters and the cliffs. Ser Balon was the first to see the second sword hanging by his side, one that was more revered than the Valyrian blades of either House Targaryen or House Stark, the latter clipped to his right hip. Then Arya recognized it too, and lastly, the bare and wretched dragon with the wilted legs who now lay uselessly below his feet.

It was the would be King who spoke first.

"Dawn."

No one answered him.

"By the grace of the Gods," Edric began chanting, "as bestowed upon their chosen warrior and sovereign, Queen Sansa of House Stark, First of Her Name..."

"I knew Arthur," Rhaegar cried desperately. He wasn't begging for his life, Edric realized, he was actually angry, indignant, all the fallen dragon's ire directed at himself. Or if not his person, then the sword he'd carried down from the castle.

"...the charges being gross treason, heresy, conspiracy against the people, against the Faith, the destruction of the Great Sept, the massacre of untold hundreds of innocent and faithful men and women of the Gods..."

"Arthur loved me," Rhaegar continued shouting, interrupting him. "We were like brothers, your uncle and I! He gave his life for me!"

_Does he want me to spare him? Or does he simply not want the sword of Arthur Dayne to be the instrument of his execution?_

"...by the verdict of battle the Gods have delivered their sentence to their chosen Queen, who has charged her faithful Lord and servant to announce..."

"You're not worthy of him!" Next to his king, Jon Connington rolled one belly against the dirt, seemingly far more resigned to his death than Rhaegar. "You're not worthy of that sword, you're not worthy of Dawn, you're not worthy of your name!"

"I'm not worthy," Edric asked violently, the King's bellicosity finally interrupting his pronouncements.

The words emerged from the man's mouth as a hiss from a serpent. "You're not worthy to be named the Sword of the Morning. Arthur knows this, wherever he is, he'll curse you for this."

"You're right," Edric said, hissing back his reply in turn. "I'm _not_ worthy of Dawn. And you're right, Arthur served you. Perhaps he did love you, see you as a brother."

Unsheathing the pale milky blade, he placed face of the sword between him and the condemned man, staring into his twisted reflection, sure that Rhaegar was doing the same.

"Did Arthur think of his love for you, when he abducted an innocent girl and kept her captive until her death?" Instead of meeting the King's eyes, he met Sansa's, and Arya's. Between them, smoke from the fire billowed against their shoulders. "Was Arthur truly worthy of the Sword, his name, when he watched the Mad King burn innocents, burn every man from Great Lords to innocent girls alike, _was he worthy of Dawn then?_"

He was screaming by the end. Calming himself, he broke the circle, walking away and tracing the edge of the cliffs with his feet.

"I imagine he hated himself," the young Lord of Starfall continued, speaking more to his own voice than the gathered crowd, "by the end of it all. He probably hated you too, he definitely hated the Mad King, that I don't doubt. But whatever his hatred, for his vows which saw suffer the very people he was sworn to protect...I think when death came, when King Eddard the Just rode to Dorne, my uncle was glad of it."

His grip loosening upon the sword, Edric nearly dropped the weapon, holding the tips of the hilt with only two fingers, Dawn dangling perilously over the violent chasm below.

"But he didn't have a choice, did he? Because of his vows, because of his sworn duty?" Swinging his head back, he met for the first time in his life the purple eyes of Rhaegar Targaryen. "I do. And here's my choice."

Without another word, he cranked back one shoulder and, gripping firmly, as if it were his own, the hilt of his family's ancestral sword for the first and last time, Edric Dayne hurled as far as he could the blade down into the ocean below. Whatever sound it made, whether it met rocks first, or fell straight into the churning waters, did not return to haunt his ears, or those of any who stood by the sea that morning.

All their eyes watched him in shock, even Sansa's, and Edric saw Balon Swann cry out audibly in dismay, having witnessed with his own eyes the destruction of the greatest sword ever or to be in the Seven Kingdoms. Down below, Rhaegar's expression was...indiscernible, unrecognizable, his jaw dropped, twisted against his own mouth, his fingers grown long like his father's holding its death like grip upon the wet dirt, as he had himself become the sword he was still trying to save in his mind.

Drawing Ice, he pointed the far heavier blade against the tip of Rhaegar's nose.

"Fuck Arthur Dayne. Fuck Dawn, fuck the Sword of the Morning. I don't care about vows, I don't care about the empty honor of kings, or the hypocrisy of knights who claim to be noble, who yet serve tyrants. I have my choice, and I've made it...I choose my Queen."

His eyes met Sansa's for the first time since he'd begun his outburst, and he saw what appeared to be pride, perhaps relief...and a devilish grin that bade him continue.

"I serve her knowingly, and happily. I don't hate myself, like Arthur must have, I _love_ myself, I love my life, my service, my fealty. I don't pretend to be honorable, I don't pretend to be noble, I don't pretend anything, because I know only one truth...that of my Queen. If she asks me to kill, to maim, if she asks me to put to death every last man, woman, and child from Dorne to Castle Black, I'll do it, I'll do so happily, and I'll go to sleep happily each night beside her, satisfied that I've done the duty I've _chosen_ for myself."

The blade had nicked against the King's nose just deep enough to have drawn the smallest droplet of blood. Remembering his most immediate duty, Edric locked eyes with the man his vaunted uncle had supposedly loved as a brother.

"In the name of the Queen, I sentence you to die."

* * *

**Sansa**

The words spoken, she turned, and one of the attendants handed her the heavy object. It was a brand, made in the shape of a direwolf, the sigil of her father, her family, glowing with otherworldly heat. Without a second's hesitation, Sansa walked carrying the object towards the naked form of her rapist and tormenter, kicked down his hips so that he lay upon his back, and imprinted the searing metal directly against his groin, squeezing prick and balls together into melting skin as the king cried out in infernal pain.

Lingering for about half a minute, she pressed it firmly against his body until the metal returned to something resembling its original color. Then she walked it back, one servant taking it to return it to the fire, another handing her a new glowing hot brand, ended in the shape of a trout, the sigil of her mother, her grandfather. This she pressed against Rhaegar's thigh, then another sigil, wolf again, she'd ordered five made for the occasion, against his other thigh, they turned him over, Arya took her turns, they alternated, then branded him together, until his back became covered with the sigils of those he'd wronged, trout and wolf evenly carving their charred form against his skin, each buttock receiving the mark for good measure.

"I thought dragons didn't burn," the Queen said bemusedly, loud enough for all to hear, even through Rhaegar's lingering shrieks, as she placed another brand against his stomach, gently now, so that her touch was not lethal, not this one, at least, the metal merely boiling slowly the linings of his abdomen. Then another trout for the left side of his chest, another wolf for the right side of his chest, a trout against shoulder, by this time he'd run out of screams, his breath barely perceptible, but still persisting, to the Queen's satisfaction, and that of her audience.

The last brand they handed her was a wolf. Next to his king, turned away in torment yet unable to escape the smell of Rhaegar's charred yet living corpse, Jon Connington wept quietly. She thought she ought wait longer, let the pain linger, but this was her day, and Sansa I Stark was not to be denied anything this day.

Taking the brand, she stamped it directly into the face of the dragon, pressing it down as hard as she could with both her arms and hands. Slowly but surely, she felt the heated pressure doing its work, the great enemy's face giving under her weight, his body and limbs spasming in every direction, giving voice to the agony that his throat was no longer capable of voicing. Then they handed her another brand, also a wolf, and she pressed it against the side of his head before she'd lifted the first one, and continued on, until finally she heard a sick, collapsing sound, nearly falling over as the skull of the arch villain finally caved within itself. Truly feeling the vigor of her exercise now, she frantically gestured for yet another brand, even though the job was done, the enemy dead, beyond any more pain she could inflict, yet she couldn't help herself as she pressed one last sheet of burning metal into the ruins of Rhaegar Targaryen, her own teeth grit so hard against itself that she feared they'd fall right out of her mouth.

Then it was done, and though the day remained fresh, the Queen felt so exhausted that she feared her body was about to, like Rhaegar's broken skull, collapse into itself. Turning without another word, Sansa walked alone back towards the castle. Instantly Edric was by her side, Arya by her other. Then, the Queen realized she'd nearly forgotten the matter of their other prisoner.

"Take Connington back to the cells," Sansa instructed. "Take his eyes and tongue tomorrow, before we march, have him gelded before you place him on the cross."

"We did this for our mother, our father, our brothers, those we loved and lost," Sansa whispered, as they walked back under the gates of Starfall. "Would they be proud of us, of what we just did?"

"Doesn't matter," she heard Arya shrug. "They're dead, we're not. They don't get to choose."

* * *

Lying in her lover's arms, Sansa felt content, at peace. Weary too, whatever had transpired in this bed tonight had been unlike anything she'd experienced before, likely never again. Running one thumb against the tender skin beside lining his abdomen, she wondered if she'd been able to cast from her all the venom which had welled inside her soul, ever since her Crown had stolen from her her innocence.

Probably not, but it was nevertheless a blessing to feel the illusion, if for only one more night.

"I know you had an affair with the Lady Talla," she said, whispering the words gently so as not to scare him, though Edric's frame couldn't help but shake in fright at the other woman's mention. "Don't worry, I don't care. I know whatever it was, it's in the past."

His eyes closed, Sansa wondering if he were presumptuous enough to feign at sleeping, rather than answer her.

"I loved her once," he answered unexpectedly, honestly. "Or at least, I thought I did. I don't know now."

"It's fine," she said, squeezing him arm in assurance. "We both loved others, before we met each other. We had different lives...we were different people, before."

The lids to his fine eyes reopened, but deep blue irises seemed distant, as if he'd not heard a word of what she'd just said.

"Maybe I was just in love with the idea of her. I'd met Talla at a tourney, my mother and father was there too. They both died of the sickness not long after that...that tourney, those nights in Blackmont, with them, with Talla...those were my last happy memories of the family I'd had...all of us, together."

"I'm sorry," Sansa whispered. "I understand. The loneliness. But we have each other now."

"We do," Edric agreed sleepily. "Do you remember," he suddenly asked, raising his head up against his pillow, eyes alert again, "when you asked me, those first days we rode together, what I felt, when I killed someone?"

"I do."

"When Beric died, I felt sad too...but..._not_ sad at the same time. Not as sad as I _should've_ felt, I knew it. I missed him, I saw his face...his body, I almost cried...I _wanted_ to cry...but I realized I just...just couldn't. Then, most of the time, I didn't think about him at all, except when I kept asking myself why I _didn't_ think about him more, the man that practically raised me, taught me everything I knew about war, about life. I'd asked the same question many times, before I'd met you, why I didn't feel anything, when I killed? When I joked with Beric and Thoros and Brienne, when we rode and fought and ate and drank together...yet I left for my tent and slept each night thinking nothing else...except for how alone I was.

I thought I'd feel again, when I saw Talla, like I used to feel...with her, before my parents died. Perhaps I could've loved her, grown old with her, had children with her, lived a happy, fulfilling life. But it doesn't matter, she chose Loras Tyrell, she didn't choose me. You did, you chose me."

Sansa laughed nervously, listening to the man she loved who, after so many nights together, after so many rides and battles and camps, finally allowed himself to open entirely his heart to hers.

"To be fair, I didn't have much of a choice at the time."

"But you still chose me," Edric said, his voice rising, as intense as it had been when he'd thrown away his priceless ancestral sword for her sake that morning. "I meant what I said, Sansa, I _choose_ you, we choose each other. When I'm with you, I _feel_...I feel everything, I can't help it, I can't control it...Gods...I need it, I need you."

This time, it was she who closed her eyes, needing a few minutes to comprehend everything he'd just confessed to her.

"Does this mean," she finally asked, raising her head to face his, "did you just tell me, in some strange Dornish way, that you love me?"

Her accusation caught him by surprise. Edric laughed, a light boyish sound that belied his age, despite his prowess, the long life he'd lived, the deepest recesses of his complexity that she'd never known of until this night, a fitting culmination to what might have been the strangest day of her life. Strangest day to date, at least.

"I guess it does. You're right. I love you. I don't _think_ I love you, I don't pretend to love you, I couldn't not love you, even if it were the death of me, I can't help it, I can't stop it, and I don't want to. I love you."

"I love you too," Sansa said tenderly, the way she'd said the words to Trystane. The way she'd always imagined saying the words to Loras Tyrell, the way she'd foolishly wasted them on Lancel Lannister, all dead men.

Rather than lean towards him to kiss him as he'd been expecting, Sansa raised her body so that she was half sitting up on their bed, her breasts openly revealed for all the world to admire, be they men or gods. "I guess this settles it then. We marry."

"Marry," Edric's eyes widened. "When?"

"Now."

"Now?"

"You heard me in Oldtown, I practically claimed to be the living incarnation of every god from the Father down to the Maiden. So in my eyes, we're married the moment I _decide_ we are, by my divine authority, no one else's."

Only now did she lean back down to kiss him, to seal the sanctity of their marriage in their hearts. Then she collapsed back onto his chest, feeling the weight of the day about to bury her.

"We never slept together you know," she heard him whisper, when she'd nearly drifted off to sleep, "Talla and I."

"Hmmm." She didn't care, she was so tired.

"We kissed...we touched each other a little...but there was nothing else, I swear."

"I told you, I don't care, it's not like I was some blushing maiden our first night together." But then an itch nagged inside her mind, and wouldn't let go. "So who was your first then, I'm just curious."

The lack of an answer woke her back up.

"Don't tell me you were a maiden that first night?!"

"Uh, I...I was never married to anyone..."

"But you didn't fuck some village girl," she asked, wondering if he was blushing in the darkness of the night. "Not some whore, some miller's daughter?"

"I told you," Edric replied defensively, "I didn't care about anything, not girls, not killing...not even Dawn, truly. I pretended, but...thinking about it now, I'm not even sure if I'd been alive then, anything more than a breathing wight."

"Then maybe I'm not completely full of shit," the Queen answered, chuckling gently. "Maybe I _am_ a God, the Stranger incarnate, if I can bring the dead back to life."

"If you believe it, I believe it. And we'll win this war together, because we believe it." As he answered her, Sansa thought his voice sounded firm, stolid, the voice of a man, the most feared and respected soldier in all seven kingdoms, his reputation growing by the day, Dawn or not.

* * *

"Father. Smith. Warrior..."

There was only Arya and Jeyne for her. No one for Edric, a stark and tragic reminder of his confessions to her the night before. The Septon they'd found from a nearby village up the Torentine, too aged years before to have traveled the Sept when it fell. Despite her proclamations towards divinity, the ceremony they had to conduct the sake of royal propriety, because against both their wishes, there did exist a world outside their own. Not that, holding each other's hands, staring into each other's eyes, feeling only love surrounding her, surrounding their small circle, Sansa did not treasure this rare and special moment, tainted as it was by the false religion she'd become the greatest champion for.

Somewhere far in the woods behind them, Jon Connington screamed as Obara and Nymeria prepared him for their coming march. Sansa did not need to be there for it, this was not the time for pain, this was the time for them, for love, for the last she had of her family, whether by blood or not.

"...I am yours, and you are mine."

With their kiss, she thought, they sealed the rebirth of a great dynasty, the greatest one yet to be recorded in the histories of all Seven Kingdoms, or any vast continents beyond.


	35. A Lemoncake in Highgarden

**Sansa**

It really was a delectable lemoncake. The crust was flaky on the outside, fluffy and soft just enough underneath, a sweet crunching sound bouncing against the edges of her teeth when she bit into it. The center was tender, moist, the flavor so sweet and concentrated that Sansa would've guessed she were tasting an actual dollop of lemon milkcream, she actually had to peer inside the cake, see that was still bread and flour. And the coating of dried sugar atop and along the rim, well, that was just the purest stroke of genius and, as she finished the piece, placing her dish back onto the table while a servant hurriedly served her another, the Queen took a sip of her Arbor Gold.

"It's like strawberries," she said, letting the flavor linger across the tip of her mouth, "and just enough spice from...from...a rhubarb? Yet it's...it's not too sweet, which makes it the perfect accompaniment to the cake."

The old woman sitting across from her nodded her approval, eyes dipping down to her fingernails before she spoke. "Paxter told me they shipped cocoa from the Summer Isles for that batch."

"Well, I've never tasted a finer wine in all my years in the Keep," Sansa said, setting her goblet down and returning to her second piece of pastry. "Really, Lady Olenna, you've been holding out on me...that's a terrible crime in itself, I daresay!"

"Just tell me how you like the cake," the old matron snapped, losing her patience while the harp played a soft song in the background, not Florian and Jonquil, Sansa didn't think, but of a similar tone and nature. Perhaps it was one known only to the musician himself, they said he came from Braavos. Sansa had not remembered the minstrel from the tourney, his fat form oddly disconcerting to watch as he strummed the instrument she'd once played herself when she'd been younger. Not a smart man, Sansa mused, travelling so far in a time of war, but she knew better than most now the lengths the common people would go for the smallest amounts of coin.

_Did he know Daenerys,_ she wondered, while savoring the tart taste of citrus upon her tongue. What coincidence that would be, how small the world were that so, had this man strummed his notes accompanying the Princess as she spoke fire and blood, the words of her ancient ancestor whose life had been long passed to the hands of maesters only slightly less ancient.

"Oh, my dear woman," Sansa said, pretending to remember. As she pulled out a small slip of parchment from inside the dress, the Queen beckoned Arya and Brienne and Edric and Thoros towards the table. "Please, help yourselves, it's delightful."

Jeyne, sat beside her, was already mouthing down wordlessly her first piece. Watching satisfied whilst they congregated around the platter, though Sansa saw Thoros ignoring the cake, instead taking for himself an entire jug of the wine, she waited for the reactions which followed the first chewings with their tongues and teeth.

"Edric," she questioned her new husband...her _first_ husband, by the Gods, and that was the truth.

"It's...," the young knight said, mouth full and voice mumbled, "it's _so_ good, Your Grace. Best lemoncake I've ever had for sure."

"Well," Olenna Tyrell gestured impolitely.

"My best wishes to you on this happy occasion, dear lady," Sansa gushed, ignoring her hint, instead handing the old woman the letter. Reading it, Olenna set it gravely upon the table, fingers trembling, looking far from happy than one might normally expect by such news.

"By gods, Margaery's with child."

"And so the line of Viserys Targaryen will have its heir," the Queen continued for her, "should the babe be born healthy. Interesting timing, don't you think?"

Fingers still nestled against the parchment, the ancient woman crumpled up the letter and dropped it callously into the grass.

"I told Mace not to get involved in any of this business," Olenna muttered in disgust, her confession more to herself, Sansa thought, than to the Queen she owed her every word and breath to. "He was to wrangle Margaery a marriage to your brother Bran, believe it or not. Shouldn't have been too difficult of a match, the boy's a bit young for her, but they would've made a good pair. But by the Gods...I think he forgets sometimes that he's Tarly's liege lord...not the opposite. And the crowds...that dirty, unwashed mob of fanatics...they scare the man, I fear that's what set my son on this whole rotten business, he's simply not made for riots and the sort."

The sun shone brightly against her fingers, they'd given her a corner piece for her second helping, which mean more sugar for her to pluck at around the brittle edges of the confection. If she closed her eyes, Sansa wondered if she could imagine birds chirping the songs of spring, just before butterflies emerged from the gardens of the crimson rose, flapping their wings in rejuvenation of the seasons, portending spring.

"The mob's a frightening thing, isn't it," she asked, smiling at the old woman. "I should know, my mother should know, she _was_ killed by a mob, I rode in that wheelhouse all the way back to the Red Keep with her...staring at her lifeless eyes...that bloody hole in her head. And I do find it a shame, Bran would've loved his new bride, he would've treated Margaery so well...except...he's dead, isn't he? And didn't the Lady Margaery marry the man who murdered Bran and Rickon in cold blood?"

It took a few seconds for the old woman to regain her composure. When she did, all courtesy had vanished from her voice, same as Sansa's when she'd muttered her last words.

"It's a rotten business, these politics. Young men get killed in war, lords and princes too. But murdered like that, prisoners? A child Rickon's age? It was wrong. I can't say anything more, or otherwise."

_Wrong. Just wrong, nothing else? Would you say that to Viserys's face, you old coward?_

"I'm afraid you _misunderstand_ the situation, Lady Olenna," Sansa said, feigning a nervous chuckle. "You speak of the vilest treasons and murders as if they were just...just reduced to a thing as _politics_...just a simple game played between lords and ladies and bored old widows. That's where your mistake is, I fear. _There is no game_, Lady Olenna, not when it comes to the Crown. There's _only fealty_. Or _death_."

Finishing her second piece, Sansa looked over to Arya. "It's good. It's very good. But I'm afraid the old Nan in Winterfell makes a better lemoncake."

Her sister returned her a knowing smile while several of Edric's knights dragged Willas Tyrell from his chair nearby into an adjourning courtyard. Arya knew the truth, that Sansa hated the lemoncakes in the North, they were far too bland for her taste, but it was a lie both sisters would keep to themselves, she was certain.

The castle was still holding in its defenses when the Queen joined the rest of her armies in siege, straight from her act of so-called kingslaying, and her wedding the morning after. It had been Olenna Tyrell who'd sent out a scroll upon her arrival, asking to discuss terms for their surrender, _one woman to another,_ it'd said, to which Sansa ordered her response.

No terms. Just surrender.

She figured the Tyrells were still scurrying for an appropriate reply to counter when the castellan opened the gates to them that night, a fitting end to their house, Sansa thought. Olenne Tyrell's only act left at that point was to beg her to spare the life of her last living grandson, and Sansa felt herself generous enough to offer the old woman the terms she'd desperately sought.

_"Make me the best lemoncake I've ever had in my life, and I'll spare your grandson Willas."_

To give her hope, knowing it was fruitless.

Of course there was no way she could honor her promise, Sansa mused, as the dismembered head of the last heir to Highgarden plopped onto the ground, blood sullying the innermost sanctity of the ancient castle. At least he had died with dignity, same as Garlan Tyrell, both men were good at dying, and they'd seemed decent, the few times Sansa had conversed with them before this last war. But she needed to secure Jeyne's inheritance, she needed to satiate the bloody appetites of the surrounding smallfolk which she'd been the one to whet, and she needed all the realm to know just how little tolerance their Queen held for treason.

_You should have killed me, all of you. Whatever afterlife there is, or isn't, I'll make you all bemoan for millennia that you didn't while you could._

But, Sansa confided to herself, the lemoncake had indeed been the best she'd tasted in her life. It wouldn't be the last she'd have of it, Jeyne would gladly give her all of Highgarden's kitchens with only a word, but Sansa also warned herself with the thought that there would be little more time for lemoncakes and wine with a war still to win, which made this interlude spent in the afterglow of her enemy's surrender all the more precious.

"You'll leave for Dorne tomorrow morning," the Queen proclaimed, rising from her seat, but not before beckoning the servants to refill her wine cup and place another piece of that most wonderful cake on her plate. "Prince Edric will have fifty of his finest men escorting your way...I think you may rather like it...lots of cousins and nieces and such to keep you company, fan you when it gets too hot down by the Summer Sea."

"Finest men," the old woman spat out, all veneer gone. She'd not looked once at Willas's beheading, Sansa noted, staring down at her hands clutched sadly against each other through the whole grim scene. "Are they to be my executioners...Your Grace?"

_What do you know, old woman, about having a sword by your neck, awaiting the final blow by those sworn to protect you?_

"Lady Olenna," the Queen said, clipped but polite, "believe me, those men are the _only_ reason the smallfolk won't rip you limp from limp before you even reach Prince's Pass...a woman who'd sold her kingdom to the false gods. Oh," she paused. Sansa stepped carefully over towards the matriarch of a dying house, as her soon to be former servants helped the old lady to her feet one last time.

"For your sake, and Margaery's,...for the sake of my own conscience, I do pray her child is stillborn. I suggest you write her tonight, write your son too. Whatever the health of her child...it's clear to all the realm that she and her husband hold the power of life and death over my son. If Prince Baelor comes to _any_ harm...when I win this war, and I _will_ win it, I assure you...the Lady Margaery will pray to have suffered the clean deaths of her brothers."

With that she left, walking past a worn wagon they'd placed upon the edges of the square, within view of the terrified harpist. Jon Connington was dead, he'd lingered long enough past Prince's Pass, into the first villages they'd paraded them through in the Reach. His post stood next to another, from which the horrifying remains of Rhaegar Targaryen were strung upside down, suspended, burnt skin peeling off like dead bark from a tree, only the tips of his still silver hair brushing against the dirt where they'd set him serving as evidence of the royal dragon which once inhabited the mutilated body. Atop his post, nailed by his feet, lay a sign drawn in blood.

_"The Red Usurper."_

Atop Connington's head was another.

_"His Kingslaying whore."_

Men guarded the bodies day and night, she'd heard the japes, whomever held the shift jokingly referred to as Kingsguard by their knowing brothers in arms. They stood by and laughed along with the villagers who spat and threw rotten fruit against the corpses wherever they went. Sansa couldn't help but think how horrified the Lady Olenna had been by the sight at first, the stench overpowering her most delicate and carefully maintained gardens, not to mention her aged nostrils. How mortified Margaery would be, to see her home so blemished upon by such unsightly wonders, would it disturb her more than the news of her dead brothers? Did it give the old woman nightmares, that she may have to see her last grandson strung up to suffer such a similarly horrible fate. Though Sansa never intended for any punishment more gruesome than a simple beheading for Willas Tyrell, she would be lying if she didn't take glee in the fact that the Lady Olenna did not know any better for the duration of her ordeal.

* * *

_"I can't believe they killed Bran and Rickon. Rykka...she thought she'd marry him some day...Rickon. I told her...even when the Tarly's held us, it's probably not proper, cousins and all, it's not a good look for either of our families. But Rykka, she just said, she liked the way their names sounded together. And Bran...I don't think I've met anyone kinder, purer of heart, son of a King or not."_

_Myrcella looked down upon her feet shyly, the two women sharing one last conversation the night before she was to sail back to Dorne, to the moment she'd waited so long for. She thought they'd speak more of politics, how to rule...yet that rotten business seemed the last thing that either one of them wanted to speak about apparently. Though Sansa had said little of her brothers she'd killed through her sloppiness, her selfishness, not even to Edric, strangely enough the Queen felt comfortable speaking of them with her cousin. Myrcella had always been more of a child, never a friend her age, a possible peer, when she'd visited Winterfell in the past, but there was something comforting to her presence now, so tranquil and peaceful juxtaposed against the storms raging inside her heart._

_She's family, Sansa thought. Every word she'd told her and Cersei she'd meant, they were family, they were the pack, it had taken all of them far too long to realize it so, but it was not too late._

_"You didn't...you didn't want to marry Bran, did you Myrcella?"_

_"Oh no," the younger girl shook her head, mortified rather than bashful. "I thought...I'd hoped he would remain a good friend to me. Mother wished to marry me somewhere in the south you see...it's a strange land for me...the people, their ways, their Gods. But Bran had always been kind, so I..."_

_Her golden haired cousin trailed off, and Sansa rubbed her back with her palms, offering what Queenly comfort she could._

_"The realm is a worse place without him."_

_"Trystane too," Myrcella continued, tears freely flowing from her eyes now, "he'd...I'd...he'd lived with us for so long..."_

_Sansa was about to ask if she saw her last beloved as a brother as well, but the way her eyes wavered, the way her lips quivered, her shoulders slumped and shook..._

_"You loved him too, didn't you?"_

_"I," the younger girl laughed nervously, surprised she'd read her mind._

_Oh, you poor thing, Sansa thought, you need to learn to lie so much better for you to survive here._

_"It's fine. He was a...Trystane was a very lovable man. I don't blame you."_

_"I don't think I even knew what love was, to be honest, I was so young."_

_So had she been too, Sansa realized. So had Trystane. Did they truly love each other? Did they even know what love was, did they even know who each other were, or did they just find each other only because there'd been no one else?_

_"I miss him," Sansa confessed, hugging the girl, even as she unknowingly stood less than a fortnight away from her marriage. "I'll always miss him. But...he's...even if he can hear us cry for him, Myrcella...he can't dry our tears for us, wipe them away...not now, not anymore. We have to live. Doesn't mean we'll forget our past, whom we loved before, whom we lost."_

_"No."_

_"Don't be afraid to mourn him. Take your time, my dear cousin. You're the Lady of Hightower now, the country's oldest and proudest city is yours to rule. You'll find it in your heart to love again. Not right away...perhaps not for some time..."_

_"You're lucky," the girl said, forcing a smile as she wiped away her tears. "Your Edric...he's...he's perfect, is he? He's every bit the knight and warrior Trystane was...the great man he could've been."_

_"Edric's far from perfect," Sansa laughed uncomfortably, "if only you knew what...but...he's good for me, I think."_

_"I think so too."_

The Queen woke. Had it been a dream, or had it actually happened? It was hard for her to tell the difference sometimes. Her beautiful husband was already up, sitting at their small desk inside the lord's chambers in Goldengrove. They'd marched up the river after leaving Highgarden, the Rowans had abandoned their castle, and she was keen to give more riches to her soldiers, see more of the countryside, talk to more of the people, bequeathing to them the former wealth of their former lords in turn.

"Where were you last night?" She'd felt him crawling into bed next to her late, barely interrupting her from whatever nightmare she'd been suffering then.

"Busy," Edric replied, worried as he continued studying the map. "It's not good, I didn't want to tell you last night, spoil your sleep."

His fingers picked up a slip of paper, and Sansa could tell from his mournful eyes that he'd meant it.

"Stop," she commanded, her husband obeying, pausing in his tracks in the middle of the room.

"You're troubled too, Sansa?"

"Just the opposite. I've news too. I don't want...whatever you have there," she pointed at the scroll between his fingers, "to ruin this for us."

Sitting up, patting the bedsheet next to her, she beckoned Edric approach, and Sansa took his arm and wrist with both her hands after he'd sat.

"The day of Rhaegar's execution," she began, intoning darkly, "I had a secret. But he didn't deserve to know it."

"What was it," he asked, unsure and wary of what she was about to say.

"My daughter with Trystane," the Queen forced herself out the words. Rather than close her eyes, she took in all of her husband before her, his gallant visage, his scent, the faint musk of sweat, his posture, more relaxed than most lords, more rigid than most Dornishmen...all so as to avoid picturing and reliving in her mind that awful night. "I'd named her afterwards...my Princess, who lived but a few short breaths.

Lyanna."

"I'm sorry," was all Edric could offer, staring discomforted at his feet. Rather than let him linger on in his awkwardness, Sansa moved his limp arm and placed his hand on her stomach.

Realization set in. Uncertainty, fright, happiness, joy, wonderment all flitted through his eyes in a moment, then he lunged at her and hugged her tightly. This shouldn't have been too much of a surprise, she'd stopped the moon tea ever since their wedding, but still...caught in each other's warm embrace, she could forget they lay in the bed of a stranger, inside the castle of a vanquished enemy, with troubling news still to come, all she asked for was that they could savor the _now_, for once, if not forever.

"The heir to the Seven Kingdoms," she said, when he withdrew, but not leaving yet another lingering kiss against her lips. "The birthright of an Iron Throne...our child...the future of House Stark...the future of _our_ dynasty."

"By the Gods," Edric stammered back, his hand never leaving her belly, his teeth chattering as he spoke, "this war...we must protect you."

Beaming at him, Sansa thought of the changes befallen her husband since that night they were married in their hearts. He'd been tender before, and protective too, but ever more so now, stronger, more sure in his role by her side.

"It'll still be many months before the child becomes a burden," the Queen replied, both her hands clinging still to his. "I'd expect we'd be sleeping in the Red Keep by then."

His smile disappeared. "Perhaps not," reminding Sansa of his letter. She saw that it bore the seal of the Lady of Storm's End, except not just the words, but even the handwriting, was all Renly's.

_"The King is dead, you write me. It is for the better, Rhaegar wasn't fit, nor does deception and lies make right. Was it lawful? Laws seem to easily serve the purposes of those who'd interpret them from the throne afterwards, don't they? Did Eddard Stark have the lawful right to sit upon the Iron Throne, when other houses carrying the blood of the dragon still lived? Did his daughter have the lawful right to her crown, when thousands of years of Andal tradition dictated that the throne and inheritance should pass to her brother, however younger? What does law or right say, when competing claims marry, then set off to kill the other?_

_Or perhaps it matters less who inherits the throne by law or right, rather than who is right to rule. Was treason committed by House Tyrell? By law, it is for the maesters to decide. The merits of the case laid before an impartial man's eye, one can cast aspersions on the honor and intentions of Lord Mace, and his person alone. Yet the death of his son Loras in battle was fair, because it was battle received and given. The death of his son Willas more questionable, but the heir to Highgarden did resist in his siege, and by history and tradition the victor determines the fates of the vanquished in such unfortunate circumstances. The death of his son Garlan may appear even less honorable, a captive knight surrendered yet slain by his captors with no trial._

_The Queen was wronged by many, this is true, and cannot be denied. She has since undeniably wronged far more than those who'd wronged her...the men of houses Hightower & Redwyne, whose only crime was to follow their bonds of fealty to their liege lord who...by the greatest irony of the Gods, sits alive and unharmed, though he is the only one who may be judged un-right. What justice has there been for him, compared to what justice was decided upon for the lords and sons of the Reach?_

_I know this. If the desires of the throne by Sansa I & Rhaegar I can be denied and contested by the other, the claim of Baelor II, whether his house rules as Targaryen or Stark, is unquestioned. His crown is lawful, it is rightful. It is also right, because his father and his mother have shown their wrongness, the true shades of their soul in their pursuit for power, for vengeance, for glory...at the expense of those they claim to protect as they rule._

_Storm's End thus declares for King Baelor. Our banners march to the capital, to defend the new King while he is vulnerable, from those who would make war upon his rightful throne._

_Sansa...I know not the woman who flooded the Reach in blood, but I knew the girl you were, or thought I did. Perhaps that girl still lives. Perhaps the woman who breathes calmly the toils of war today may still remember the love of a mother for her only son. Baelor II is the right king for our times. I pray his mother knows the right thing to do, so as to spare our realms and our people further bloodshed and war."_

Edric braced for a violent reaction from her, the way his shoulders tensed, but she merely sat where she was, unmoving.

"Can we take King's Landing still?"

_Damn the Gods, could she not have one happy moment left unspoiled?_

"It makes things more difficult," Edric conceded, extracting the sheet from her hands as if it were poison. "I've spoken all our men from the Stormlands, they say they remain firm in our case. I trust them, but..."

His blue eyes looked away.

"You're not as sure."

"No." He stood, and Sansa rose as well, following him to the small desk, where the map took on yet another layer of meanings and disguise. "Tarly's out there somewhere, I've word anywhere from Maidenpool to the west banks of the God's Eye. We can besiege King's Landing. Your uncle Benjen will be riding south soon too, I'd suspect. But either he, or your uncle Edmure, or our army, would run into Tarly well before we can all assemble back together."

"I hate the capital anyway. I hate the Keep, so much blood was shed there." It was true. While taking King's Landing and reclaiming her Iron Throne had never been goals she'd ever doubted, Sansa could not help but wonder what would happen afterwards, returning to the castle which had once been her home, sullied so terribly as it was now by the crimes of her enemies, by the blood of those she'd loved.

"I won't say we got lucky at Goatshorn Bend," Edric continued. "But odds are odds, and I can't promise we'll continue to roll the right die each time we further encounter him."

If he were anyone else, this man who loved her, who protected her, fought for her...sold his very soul for her, Sansa would accuse him of cowardice, or something worse. But Edric wouldn't shirk from a fight, he would not steer her wrong, she trusted that, whatever reservations he held, they were well-reasoned, they were justified, and entirely for her sake, not his own, or anyone else's.

_Could I have trusted Trystane this way? He loved me too. But could have won a battle for me, a war?_

Her eyes drifted to the left. "Old Oak," she said, pointing her finger against the map. "Dany rode there, to take Lyonel with her. She may still be there."

Edric nodded in agreement. "I was thinking the same thing. She may have left us thousands of her men, but...with word of Lord Kevan's departure from the capital, I'd be more assured of their loyalty with a Lannister lordling and his Targaryen mother marching beside us."

He kissed her neck first, before continuing, and Sansa wondered what war council could have paused as such. Prince Daemon, and his Queen Rhaenyra?

_Not the most auspicious comparison, Sansa._

"The Crownlands will be hostile to us anyway...the Kingswood, not as certain as before. We march north through the Westerlands, gather what new houses who'd support us, rout any makeshift armies which may remain loyal to Rhae...which would pretend to rally for Baelor. Then we pass through Oxcross, find your uncle in the Riverlands, and we'll have more than enough to beat Tarly even if Lord Stark is still on his way to Moat Cailin."

So easily was it decided. Taking his hand, she led him back to the bed, where they fell together, fully clothed, and Sansa held him if he were a giant doll, her nose buried against the nape of his neck, just above the rise of his back. She wouldn't be able to hold him like this for much longer, the fuller her belly grew.

_If I'm to lose this war, then take us like this, together, let a star fall upon where we lie, and crush us, so that we die free, and content, in each other's arms. So our child would not have to live under the oppression of our enemies._

That had been one of her stronger regrets, those darkest days between the night with all the deaths, and when she and Edric found each other in the Kingswood so long afterwards. Were she to die, and she'd been certain she would, truly actually, the moment she'd learned she carried what could have been Trystane's child, all she could've asked for was to die in her lover's arms. For Lyanna to have lived, not to suffer for her sins. For Bran and Rickon to live, and carry on where she'd failed.

"I'm making war against my own son," she whispered. "What kind of mother would do such a thing?"

"It's not his choice," he said, squeezing her hands wrapped over his abdomen, as if Edric were the one with their child. "We make war against those who hold him captive. Just as we made war against the traitors who took your aunt and cousins."

"Now Renly's one of them."

"Do you hate him?"

"I do," she admitted. What she'd done to Connington, she had no problems picturing the same torment on her newest traitor now. "Maybe he means what he says. Maybe he's doing this for Loras, despite what he wrote us. Maybe he's thinking he can lead a new regency council. Or maybe it's all of it, everything twisted together in his mind...what does he expect me to do, remain the stupid girl he remembers from years ago, a dead girl, rather one who's survived and winning this damned war?"

She'd not intended to raise her voice, calming herself, holding her husband tightly so she could regain her bearings, Sansa closed her eyes.

"But he did save my life, Edric, when he swore you and Lord Beric to ride for me, remain vigilant for me."

"What do you intend to do to him?"

It would pain him, but were Sansa to order a death more gruesome than Rhaegar's or Connington's for Renly Baratheon, Edric would allow it, he'd hammer in the nails by his own hands, if need be.

"I don't know," she admitted honestly. "Let's hope we win this war quickly, so I'll be in a merciful mood when I judge his sentence."

* * *

**Tyrion**

Each letter which arrived at Castle Black he dreaded more than the last, though he couldn't help but look morbidly forward to the next. Yet each letter his father seemed to favor more. Most of them were written from the Citadel, the one describing the bloodbath which occurred under its very windows Tyrion could give thanks for, if only for endless amount of wine and ale he'd drank later that night, if not the headache the morning after. Some came from the castellan or maester at Winterfell, informing Castle Black of the latest developments of a fast escalating war he'd never expected, because he hadn't honestly thought the poor girl could endure for so long, not under the watchful eyes of his traitorous uncle and the Spider, amongst others.

The letter telling of the King's execution had arrived from King's Landing itself, bearing the seal and signature of Mace Tyrell. It was written in a way meant to horrify, but that had been the one letter Tyrion laughed at. His father read it, and smirked as most men would fart, a passing moment soon forgotten, or so Tywin Lannister hoped to convey.

"Do you think the Martells died by her hand too?"

"I'd respect her the more for it," the former Lord of Casterly Rock answered his son, also a former Lord of Casterly Rock. In all the years he'd known his father, before and after the sack of King's Landing, Tyrion wondered how he could abstain so much from wine, especially ensconced in the frozen north where there was no other relief in sight outside of the few hags who passed for whores in the fittingly named Mole's Town, dried up warts poking visibly through their furry, unkempt bushes. He would know, but barely, it'd taken a lot of wine...though less by each visit, that disturbed Tyrion.

"I wouldn't have expected it, knowing her. But then I didn't expect the Tyrells either. Or the Hightowers, or the Redwynes."

"I don't blame her for it. Of course she'd have them killed, the girl's smart enough to know the necessity of it, apparently. She's stupid to leave the children alive, but not as stupid as appointing her little lady friends to the most hallowed seats in all the Reach, if not all the seven kingdoms."

_Yes, you'd never leave a child alive if you can help it, would you? That's why you sit where you sit now._

"It doesn't surprise me." He tried to remain somewhat sober in the presence of his father, though it was these audiences which he required the most of wine, more trying than even a night being clawed at by crude, clumsy fingers in Mole's Town. "It was men like Baelish who betrayed her...all because she's not a man. Men like me who failed her, as well."

"And it's men who would win her crown back for her, this Dayne boy," his father said quietly, a sign that he was thinking more than he was speaking, "he's got some promise to him."

"Promise? In battle, yes. But I'd wager it's not Edric Dayne who's ordering heads being lopped off for half the lords in all the Reach and Dorne."

"Perhaps not," Tywin said, looking at him reproachfully. "You think me excessively cruel, son? I know you've always judged me, for things you could not possibly understand, before you'd ever been born. Do you think I take joy in ordering what needs to be done? A death is a death, it's all the same to those who die. But whether it's done for a _purpose_...or just out of passion...stupidity, lack of restraint..."

"Yes, there's a difference," he interrupted, "you murdered the Castameres and Tarbecks and Targaryen babes for the greater good, we all know that."

A harsh glare, and Tyrion knew he'd gone too far.

"What of my dearest sister?" He laughed lightly, trying, despite his best judgment, to appease his father after his latest insult, which he hadn't meant, but he could hardly control. "I wouldn't be surprised if Cersei ends up her Hand when all of this is said and done. You should be glad, father, a Lannister ruling the Hightower, another Lannister the bridesmaid to the Lady of Highgarden."

_If only you knew just how Lannister they are, by the Gods, you refuse to see it._

The author to the greatest massacres before the era of Sansa I Stark grunted. So he _was_ glad of it, though his father would never admit it, any pride he'd feel for any of his own blood, even Jaime for the matter.

"It's misguided, but she's young, I can't fault her thinking." Suddenly the claws of his father came for him. Tyrion read carefully the letter, his breath ragged by the end.

"She wants to meet." He said this not as a question.

Cocking his head, Tywin Lannister did not answer. Instead, he rose, took the letter from his son's outstretched hand, and cast it into the fire.

"Surely you're not going to do it."

"Surely you won't say a word."

Tyrion stood too, and tried his best to face his father eye to eye. "The business with Samwell was tricky enough...but you must know the consequences of what they'd do to you, a Lord Commander of the Watch abandoning his post, if you gamble on this and lose!"

Again, his father didn't bother to reply him, and why did he even care, he asked himself. Tyrion mulled over his choice of words...because surely the man who'd waited until the last second to sack King's Landing was not one to wager his _everything_ on a failed toss of the coin. Unless Tywin Lannister had long passed the age to know any better. Or care himself.


	36. A Wolf in the Lion's Den

**The Hand**

The band of lords gathered around him inside the Great Hall of Castle Darry, a small room in a smaller castle, seemed befit both their dire circumstances and their more modest of settings. Unless their banners fought openly during the late Rhaegar's Rebellion, Randyll knew little of which lords the Spider gathered in support for the war he'd abandoned upon the Blackwater, and which houses supported the effort in secret, too timid to openly fly their flags in defiance until House Targaryen won a great victory which never came. If he had to guess, House Darry ranged amongst the latter, Lord Raymun having to keep his cards close to his vest due to this position as the late Hoster Tully's vassal. The fact too was that the Darry's had been amongst those who had kept Jonos Bracken afloat in his war against the Tully's and Blackwoods, a small side war which was about to become engulfed into the main war.

"I don't see why we're here," the arrogant blonde haired Harrold Hardyng spat out, clad in armor befitting a far greater man than his little house, whatever his soon to be inheritance. "My loyalty's to King Robin of the Vale, Lord Randyll. My only wish is to convey you that whatever war you seek to wage in the Riverlands and the North...to keep them there."

"I don't think that's why you're here," Randyll countered gruffly. "Else the poor boy would be dead already. No, you're not content as King of the Vale, are you? Because you're no fool, you don't know just how secure your so-called crown'll fare once it comes down to your so-called vassals, much less the ire of the Seven Kingdoms, no matter who wins this war. And you'd rather the Queen lose, don't you, because if she wins, the Royces and Waynwoods would have your head...no...they'd see to it that you'd suffer far worse than just a simple sword at your neck or shove out your Moon Door."

He spoke in threats, and the boy backed down as he'd expected, because it was the truth. Lyn Corbray, former Protector of the Vale, was dead, fallen through the Moon Door in several pieces, if the whispers were true. The Royces had indeed held the moon gate, despite Robin Arryn's newest guardian, but to the credit of their loyalty to the Iron Throne, they'd chosen to march west alongside the Waynwoods for the resurgent Stark Queen, joining with the Tully's, but in turn leaving the pass to the Eyrie poorly defended. Hardyng, propped up by the bannermen of Houses Grafton and Redfort, amongst others, then stormed the castle, taking control of the Vale...all in the name of King Robin, so he'd tell everyone.

"With all respect Lord Randyll," William Moonton said, a thin man far resembling a warrior, "and believe me, I've no wish to speak ill of the dead, enough good men have died for Hoster Tully's mistake, thinking he could prop up a girl on the Iron Throne. But the fact is...the girl's winning, she whooped you good on the Mander, didn't she? An' she captured and killed her king and husband, by the Gods, it's not right...but it's fact. An' the Sparrows...those fucking fanatics are a plague on the land, brought forth by your King no less. Good men and women are being slaughtered out there, I can't control it all...Sparrows...anyone o' the fucking villagers suspected of being Sparrows, or harboring them, by Gods, innocent butchers who've shorted the wrong man a half pound of meat are gettin' burnt alive out there."

"I know," Randyll conceded the Lord of Maidenpool. "The Sparrows were a mistake. But they're dead, their cause is dead, along with the King who brought them to our shores."

His first act upon returning to King's Landing had been to write all the lords of the realm. He claimed ignorance of whether Rhaegar had truly intended to inflict the fire religion upon the seven kingdoms..._"though if I'm to be honest, I think he was fooled by their claims to piety, same as many of us, but alas, the contents of the dragon's heart died with the dragon himself."_ Then he'd ordered the remaining Sparrow acolytes in the capital executed, and the High Sparrow brought before the same bloodthirsty mob which had cheered him on so rabidly before, all the vermin of Flea Bottom screaming in rapturous glee while his men whipped the old man, then tore out his tongue, blinded him, and cut off his hands and feet.

_"They say," Randyll had screamed to the crowd, "the followers of the false fire God burn their heretics, their failures. We can't stoop down to the gutters our enemies dwell in...so we send this scoundrel back to Volantis, to crawl before the wretched witches who'd sent him, so that they may wreak their barbaric brand of barbaric justice upon their own!"_

Then, he and Kevan and Mace all stood together while they scourged Prince Viserys for the crime of murdering the Princes Bran and Rickon Stark in a heated fit of passion, upon learning of his brother's death and treatment at the hands of the Queen, that was their story. It was risky, punishing a Targaryen Prince, but truly Viserys held no tangible power despite his name or blood. The days of the dragon may return, but for now, it was the power of the regents who held the seven kingdoms together. Seeing Kevan Lannister standing beside him now, Randyll could only pray that Mace could keep his goodson in line, along with the capital itself, though the arrival of Renly Baratheon, belated as it was, could only but help.

"We made our mistakes," he continued. "But Rhaegar is dead, his era over. The era of the Sparrows is over. The time has come for King Baelor Targaryen, Second of His Name...and the only thing keeping the realms from the blessed peace it so deserves is a wretched woman who'd deny her own son's rightful seat upon the Iron Throne."

"Look at what the bitch did," Jonos Bracken screamed angrily next to him, "look at what she did to the Hightowers, to the Tyrell sons, old Paxter Redwyne."

_To your claims to Highgarden, _Randyll couldn't help think.

But he had to give credit to the man, the fact that their plight in this war not any worse thanks to his efforts. Before the snows even cleared, the Lord of Stone Hedge managed to mount an attack and rout the Roote armies guarding the River Road, bloodying the banks of the Red Fork red as they advanced towards Stone Hedge. The Tully's and Blackwoods, holding out in Riverrun during the worst of the storms, circled around south towards the King's Road, but the decision of Raymun Darry to declare for Rhaegar gave them the advantage to inflict upon the enemy a defeat at Pennytree, though the Tully's retreated in good order down to Acorn Hall. Then Jonos made the decision to besiege the castle of House Piper, a reasonable decision at the time, though unfortunate, not knowing that the Royces and Waynwoods were already marching west, having declared themselves for House Stark, rejoining the wars of the seven kingdoms. Hearing of their impending arrival, the loyalist army abandoned the siege and rode back towards Darry to meet the Knights of the Vale, except the wily old Bronze Yohn, crossing the Trident first, managed to elude them, arriving at Acorn Hall before Jonos could pivot back.

So there all the girl's armies had gathered, and marching in their direction, while Jonos and his men made the retreat back to Castle Darry, where Randyll and Kevan Lannister met them, having rallied together what banners they could in the Crownlands along the way.

"Lord Jonos is right," Randyll agreed. He turned to Gerold Grafton. "Lord Gerold, Gulltown is the fourth largest city on the continent. Look at what that woman inflicted in Oldtown...they said thousands of people cried out for the blood of the Hightowers, who'd ruled the city rightfully, justly, faithfully for thousands of years. I saw it with my own eyes, I lost on the Mander to the Dayne boy, that's true...but each village and town we passed in the very Reach itself took their toll on my men in blood. The future of House Tyrell destroyed, and their own people cheer, or shrug their shoulders. And why shouldn't they, when the Queen rewards them her ill-gotten spoils in war, robbing all the greatest houses and manors as if she were a bandit rather than proper royalty."

"By the Gods man," Raymun Darry nearly screamed at the two lords of the Vale inside the hall. "She's appointing her little ladies and girls to the proudest seats in the realm. Go back to the mountains, stay and watch her win this war, and then what? You think she's going to leave the last of her kingdoms alone? And if you resist her? Hells, if your men slaughter us in these very chambers now and declare for her...I'd reckon she's still got a stray sister to appoint the new Lady of the Eyrie. A stray Stark girl, Benjen Stark's youngest, to name Lady of Gulltown, and you think she won't? Aye, I bet yer people are already whispering behind your back Gerold, they'd call you a Sparrow and be rid of yer, fer yer riches and gold an' castle..."

"This isn't just any war," Randyll continued, thankful for the cowardly man's help, because who else but the cowardly could stand tallest when faced with the prospect of extinction? "Not between houses and kingdoms, not anymore. She's changed that. You've got a pack of girls leading unruly mobs...just as barbaric as the as any mercenaries or priestesses from Essos...that's the future of the Kingdoms she's fighting for, dammit!_ And they're wining!_" He pounded the table with his fist for effect. But also because he did believe his words...because his heart beat and shook in fear at what Sansa Stark would do to the realm, to himself and Dickon, were she to win this war. "By the Gods, men, this war is a fight for our very survival, our way of life! For our castles, our families, our wealth, our legacies!"

He turned to the man they called the Heir, who had stood perilously close to murdering a child king. Who may yet do so, when all of this was said and done.

"Lord Hardyng, your knights, who are sworn to you, should understand this the most. Mistakes were made by Rhaegar, and in his name, that's true. But the war Sansa Stark wages...it's not for a throne, but it's against all our ways, thousands of years of Andal tradition! Are we to be ruled by men, by lords and knights and the codes and proudest traditions of our ancestors? Or are we to answer to women, see common smiths and beggars who dare to cheer the bleeding of the greatest lords of the realm?"

"It's true," the young Harry answered, "the stakes are indeed high." Beside him, Gerold Grafton breathed a sigh of relief, clearly the Lord of Gulltown would prefer to stand against the champions of mob rule, and a Queen who would strip him of everything he'd hold dear, or so Randyll would have him believe.

"So will be the rewards," Randyll responded. "I've written the Freys, they stand with Edmure now, but they'll seen through the true threat. Once this war is over, old Walder will be rewarded with Riverrun and Harrenhal. House Brax and the other loyal Westerland banners are marching east too. It's not enough, we need more help, I admit, I had to reach an agreement with the Greyjoys. King Euron should be sailing to Seagard as we speak, punish the Mallisters for taking the wrong side. It won't be easy, but we can corner the enemy here, it's crucial we win the war in the Riverlands, no matter the cost, before the Northmen make it down to the Neck."

"And the Vale," Hardyng asked expectedly.

"It's not Robin Arryn's fault he's been used by his mother and everyone else in his kingdom." _Including yourself,_ Randyll thought. "I can't offer you a crown, obviously, that'd be treason. But the Eyrie's yours, the Vale...Jon Arryn's son is old enough to swear his vows to the Watch, once this war's done."

The offer made, and accepted without a word, so Randyll was pleased he wasn't about to join the fate of the Hightowers just yet.

* * *

**Edric**

As they made their way up the Ocean Road, from Old Oak to Crakehall, where the Princess was finally reunited with her beloved son, Edric Dayne kept his attention upon all the whispers of the war around him. The Brax's had fled to the Riverlands, leaving only the Lyddens, Footes, and Plumms guarding Lannisport. Though he'd left thousands of men behind garrisoning Oldtown and Highgarden for Sansa's newest heiresses, they still outnumbered their enemies by far, and only the simplest charge, within sight of the ruins of Tarbeck Hall, had sent the defenders fleeing, his cavalry riding forth through the hills overlooking the Sunset Sea pursuing this newest rout.

His attentions remained on the war, but at night, his eyes were reserved only for his wife, his Queen, and her growing belly, where their child grew larger and larger inside her. When he'd first heard the news in Goldengrove, Edric had thought he'd wanted a son, to teach him how to swing a sword, to make war. Then, he'd wondered what he'd say to a son, after having thrown away their ancestral sword into the ocean. Then Sansa told him she wanted a daughter, and he'd agreed, because his wife was the most formidable and fearsome person he'd ever met, man or woman, and Edric was sure any daughter borne the great Queen would be the same, so how proud would he be to raise such a woman from a babe?

The more she grew, the more he loved her, and desired her. Her breasts, swollen, a prize he'd taste for himself before their babe. Her thighs grew fuller when he pleasured her with his tongue, all her body changing anew for him to conquer, one soft and plush kingdom after another.

They arrived in Lannisport, and the Queen harangued the smallfolk atop the steps to the city square. The grounds were smaller, which was just as well, because Sansa was wearying with every day passed, the burdens of child and war catching up to even the strongest of women, and the humbler crowd meant that she did not have to strain her voice so while she rallied the smallfolk of the west into a bloodthirsty trance, same as the ones in the south.

_Tywin Lannister himself can emerge out of the ice_, he'd thought, watching the spectacle proudly,_ and they'd tear him limb from limb._

So they stopped at all the village halls and taverns along the way too. He observed his wife enjoyed the frolickings with the smallfolk less, the maesters having urged Sansa to give up her ale and wine until their child's birth. But then the Princess began joining them too, her presence always a delight when she filled in where a sober and more reserved Queen stood aside, and Edric could sense in her the subtlest pangs of jealousy that the Targaryen woman seemed to genuinely enjoy the company of the commonfolk more than her Queen, even before she'd finished her first glasses of ale.

Theon and Yara Greyjoy met them at the Dragon Princess's abode in Casterly Rock. It was a satisfying secure castle, Edric thought, though Daenerys told them of the weaknesses of the sewage tunnels, which they ensured remained heavily guarded afterwards. The problem was, it was too secure, enough to be tempting for him to sit out the rest of the war, so long as to risk the enemy regaining ground, enough so to march west and so transform this sanctuary into their tomb.

"We march to the Golden Tooth after Castamere and Banefort," Edric said to her, in the privacy of the chambers which had once belonged to Sansa's aunt. "This war will be finished in the Riverlands, I think, regardless of whether your uncle Benjen's armies can make it south in time."

The sigh which emerged from her throat was courageous, too courageous for her own sake, Edric thought. "The mountain passes will difficult, won't they?"

"They will," Edric agreed, rubbing his wife's back and neck with his fingers as she crouched forward, staring down at their worn map, the same one they'd brought and kept fresh from Starfall. "If I were Tarly, I'd have the Brax's and the Lyddens hide near the passes, ambush us at the ready. But then, one bad storm might wipe out whatever fighting fortitude their men have left."

"Do you like your cape," Sansa asked, nestling her head against his shoulder. She was exhausted, she woke exhausted, and Edric could only guess how his wife could persevere through each continuing day.

"I love it," he answered. He'd never worn a cape before. She'd sewn him one, on the march to Casterly Rock, clad in the deepest purple, the sigils of a golden star flying over a red wolf adorning the center of the garment. "I love you. I'll wear it with pride, when the next battle comes."

"I don't think I'll have enough time to make myself anything thicker," she said, worried. "I'll ask Daenerys, see if there's any winter's garb here which may fit me."

"Sansa."

"What?"

"You should stay here. War is not...it's not..."

He couldn't finish, and she looked at him sympathetically. "I know you're worried for me, for our child. It's sweet. I worry too, believe me, I will not risk our child's life. If I ever feel that...that I'm unwell...that she's unwell, I'll ride back to Casterly Rock at once, with a hundred of your finest men protecting me." Her fingers, not as slender as before her pregnancy, fiddled around with a sigil on the map. "Or Riverrun," she said mischievously, greedily, "if we're closer to there by then."

"I trust you." He did. Yet he worried. And it bothered him, deep inside his heart, whom he worried for more. Their child, yes. But were some strange god to hold a knife at his throat, and compel him to answer the truth hidden inside his heart, whom he'd rather save...a child he'd never met, or the woman who'd turned his world upside down and conquered it well before she'd conquered the rest of her kingdoms, Edric stood afraid to voice his answer to anyone besides Sansa.

"Come," she said gently, bidding him rise. "We have pirates to wrangle tomorrow, and I need a good night's sleep for it."

She led, and he followed.

* * *

**Sansa**

"Your Grace," Yara Greyjoy said, "with all respect, Pyke lays open and undefended."

"It does," Sansa agreed. "And with all respect, Queen Yara, how did taking Pyke serve my father? It became his deathtrap, his grave." The woman frowned, but only because she could not argue against her logic. "Perhaps it's a trap laid by your uncle. Perhaps not. But if Euron wins this war because you and your brother were away taking the island, guess where he's going to go next, with the help of Tarly and his men? And guess who won't be around to help you?"

"We can hold them," Theon bluffed. "We'll defeat them, an open and honest battle's all we've ever wanted."

But Sansa could tell that Yara's mind had been changed, and with that, the direction the Iron Born would take to.

"Where are the Baneforts then," she asked, her younger brother shooting her a dirty grin, but not contradicting her implicit decision out loud. "Get this over with, and the closer our uncle is to death."

"They've fled north," Edric said, taking charge of the meeting. He was seven and ten now, still remarkably young compared to all the vaunted warriors standing in deference inside the hall, but added with the weight of all his great successes in the field, the Lord of Starfall and Prince of the Throne held as much respect amongst the fiercest fighters of the land as his famous uncle once had, Sansa guessed, if not more so. "But the Westerlings are bearing down on them. I've word they've taken refuge near the ruins of Castamere."

"By themselves," Brienne continued, "the Westerlings should prevail. With our numbers surrounding them from the south, they have no chance." The woman was both a great fighter, and a leader of men, all of whom couldn't help but respect her because of her almost unnatural strength and skill with the sword. Once this war was over, Sansa thought she should knight her, traditions be damned. Or before, even, because there were still battles to fight, and were the worst to happen, the Lady Brienne of Tarth did not deserve to die without such honors bestowed upon her in life.

"But our eyes are blinded in the oceans," one Queen continued to the other. "Our best laid plans would be for naught if the whispers are false, and Euron Greyjoy plans an ambush on the shores north of Casterly Rock. We need you, King Theon, Queen Yara. The war's not over. We need to fight it _together_, with one mind, one firm hand."

"And," Edric added with a smirk, knowing the depths of their strategies by now, "don't forget...help us take Banefort, and you'll have all the more treasures to decorate your walls in Pyke with."

So it was decided easily, the pirates departed to set sail, and Edric readied his men. Yet Brienne remained, her clear blue eyes looking at her in apprehension, as if the most loyal of her soldiers were about to admit to the basest treachery.

"My dear lady," Sansa said carefully, sitting back down in her seat, "something troubles your mind?"

"Your Grace," the Lady of Tarth said with a cough, "you know I believe in you, I believe in our cause...that I'd serve you until my dying day..."

"But," Sansa admitted. There was always a but, she had an almost prophetic way of predicting when she'd hear that word by now.

"But...," Brienne repeated, averting her eyes.

"Do you not agree with Edric's strategy? Is it the Riverlands you're concerned with?"

"Storm's End, Your Grace."

_You can cut me down without a second thought, yet you stand terrified of me, same as Edric and all the other men, _Sansa continued to marvel.

This she'd not expected. The rightful Queen sighed sadly. "Shireen's a good friend of my sister's. She would not make war on us, it's clear that Lord Renly's the one who has her ear...if not outright control of her castle and bannermen, despite her right to rule and make the decisions of where all the Stormlands ought declare."

"You're not wrong, Your Grace," Brienne continued, Sansa was sure she'd never seen the older woman so uneasy. "But...Lord Renly...I've known him all my life, since I was a child..."

"You have?" This was new to her.

"I have," Brienne nodded firmly, her deep voice more confident than before. "I cannot deny that it's a path of treason he's set off towards...yet...his _intentions_..."

"Were made in good faith, you'd tell me," the Queen interrupted, though she often wondered herself.

"You're skeptical, and I understand, I would think so too, if I did not know the man. Or know him once, and pray him unchanged."

"I do owe him my life," Sansa conceded. "It is a debt I've yet to repay." It seemed appropriate, and she wondered whether the woman had plotted it so, to remind her of her debts while sitting inside the ancient seat of House Lannister in Casterly Rock, not to mention whom she was to meet at Castamere, though not even good Brienne knew of that. "You ask that I spare his life, after the war?"

"He's a good man," Brienne, all but kneeling, though there stood an inherent pride in her heart that kept her from debasing herself too basely on behalf of a traitor, Sansa could tell. "Maybe he's misled, maybe he's misled himself. But...I do believe in him still, I pray nightly to the Gods, that he can see that he's wrong, that he can correct his ways, repent, make reparations for his mistake, though I fear it may well be too late..."

The Queen stood, and immediately her sworn sword fell silent. Sansa Stark walked without emotion to the warrior woman who loomed a full head above her. First she took Brienne's hands warmly into her own, feeling the skin of this killer for the first time, tender in some spots, coarse in others. Then she squeezed them.

"I have my plans for Lord Renly, after the war," she said, betraying no emotion. "I pray he won't lead men in battle, if it comes to that. I understand that his mind may have been clouded by...by the deaths of those he cares for in this war. If Renly survives this war, and he cooperates with me, I assure you...my plans will serve him...and my kingdoms well."

But what she left unsaid they both understood.

* * *

Water dripped down from the broken walls, through the cracks in stone into the walls below. Blood, the superstitious may say, phantom remnants of the ghosts those who drowned where they stood, but Sansa knew it was nothing more than the melt from the snows which had blanked the battlefield the day before. Their battle was naught a skirmish against a retreating rearguard, the bulk of the Banefort men escaping eastward through the Pendric Hills, their fleeting victory all the more cause for concern, considering how the odds were stacking ever heavier against her uncle in the Riverlands, with every exodus of Westerland knights still refusing to bend the knee.

Edric stood outside at the ready, his knights posted in corners surrounding the last standing tower amidst the ruins of Castamere, the word standing used loosely, seeing that there stood above no roof for her to crawl underneath and take refuge from the light yet enduring drizzle.

"Where's Jon?"

"At Castle Black," the ancient man dressed in black answered her, "where he belongs." From where she stood, he appeared more frightful than any ghost traversing through worlds which would pass the both of them by.

"Samwell Tarly, and the men you'd sent to Horn Hill?"

"Safe and back at the Wall I've heard," Tywin Lannister answered in his deep and elegant voice, "though I'd already sailed from Eastwatch by then."

"Good." The way father had described the banished lion, Sansa had always pictured him a hideous ogre, balding, skin peeling off his scalp, face dripping with the blood of those whom he'd massacred. Yet Tyrion Lannister's father...well, if he wasn't a handsome man, then he looked like one who'd been handsome in his youth, before war and the Mad King and decades frozen atop the Wall had taken its toll on his features. Still, his posture resembled more a nobleman's, nearly a king himself, rather than that of a warrior's, hands clasped firmly and properly against the small of his back as he stood beneath the walls of the castle he'd nearly burnt to the ground, meeting for the first time a Queen who hadn't yet been born when the formerly great lion last roamed the seven kingdoms.

"Your cousin is a good ranger," Tywin continued, standing deathly still. "A good swordsman, a leader of men, I daresay, people like him, they respect him."

"I love Jon," Sansa began, determined to stand just as strong and forbearing as the man in black before her, who resembled ever the Stranger himself. "But I doubt you've sailed and rode so far to discuss my cousin with me."

"No," Tywin agreed. "But you're the Queen, it's your prerogative, speak what you'd wish, and I'd answer you in turn, as is my obligation and duty."

_Or burden, that's what you mean to say._

"I'm winning the war," Sansa began, feeling her voice weakening despite her best efforts. "I've taken Dorne, I've taken the Reach, the Westerlands."

_Damn Renly, so I can't claim the Stormlands before this stranger._

"Yet your enemies continue to elude you," Tywin said, picking up where she left off forcefully, yet smoothly enough as to not give the appearance of interrupting her. "Yet King's Landing holds strong and will hold strong, it won't fall barring a massacre. And the fearsome northern warriors from the lands of your father march ever slowly through the winter snows. Randyll Tarly will either lose to or defeat your uncle Edmure in the Riverlands before they come, you know this surely, seeing what you've seen in war by now. He'd also march through the mountain passes and besiege Casterly Rock well before Benjen Stark reaches that Inn at the Crossroads, you know this too."

She meant to interrupt him, to scold him, how dare the man lecture a Queen, the daughter of Eddard Stark, who'd banished him in the first place, yet her throat stood as frozen as the ghosts of the children Tywin Lannister had drowned decades ago beneath their feet.

"But it's not the north you're worried about, is it," the Lord Commander continued. "The odds are stacked against Tarly. He'll fall, sooner or later. Except, what of the kingdoms you've conquered? Dorne, held by a child? The Reach, held by children, by women..."

"By your blood," Sansa finally spoke, emphasizing each word as if she stood in parley before a battle. "By your direct line...by the only grandchildren of Tywin Lannister. If they fall, if they fail, so does everything you've accomplished in your life, south of Castle Black or not."

The old man chuckled. "If you did all of this for me, Your Grace," adding the last words as if an afterthought, "then I suppose I _should_ be flattered." Obviously the fiend was anything but flattered, nor impressed.

"I do this for me," Sansa rebutted firmly. _He's just a man,_ she reminded himself. _He's alive, he's flesh and blood, any ghost of Castamere ought be more frightful than he._ "I do this for your daughter, and your grandchildren, who were wronged by the lords of the Reach."

"Is that wise," the old crow said, taking a step forward in her direction. She'd not brought any weapons with her, Edric was nearby, standing within earshot, and why should she fear an old man so, the girl once thought, before meeting the actual ghoul herself. "To serve yourself, your friends...rather than your Crown, your birthright?"

"I suppose you mean to say they're different then."

"Don't mistake me, Your Grace." Three steps forward, and his progress stopped, leaving still a respectable distance between them. "What you've accomplished with...with the Lord of Starfall is most impressive. I'd say I'd be surprised, given your ages...yet I myself was not much younger when I..."

"When you slaughtered every man, woman, and child here and in Tarbeck Hall?"

"You disapprove?"

_Do I amuse him?_

His question was spoken in a tone meant to intimidate. Sansa braced herself to not show any fear towards the seemingly unarmed man. "Clearly I believe in a _different_ kind of war."

The old man laughed, to her chagrin, not impressed at all by her rebuttal. "So alike, yet so _different_." He turned swiftly, a spring in his step belying his accumulated years, before facing her again. "Do you understand the forces you've unleashed in Oldtown, gir...Your Grace? Do you know what it means, truly means, to unleash the fires of the mob against you and I, fires which may burn harsher than that of any ancient Targaryen dragon?"

"I believe I do, actually," she answered forcefully, before he could continue into what she'd expected to become a lecture, as if she'd become a child again, no words allowed her except those written for her mouth by her council. "Lords and knights are fickle creatures, aren't they? Loyal to the Mad King one day, loyal to Eddard Stark then Rhaegar the Rapist next. _Loyal_, inside the walls of Casterly Rock, within the Westerlands first to Lord Tywin, then to Lord Tyrion, then to Lords Kevan and Lancel, then Lancel when he defies your traitor brother...and now to a child and a Targaryen Princess. It's startling really, how flexible fealty can be in the eyes of men who see themselves as more powerful and greater than those they'd claim to serve."

"You don't think the sheep are fickle too, compared to these lords you'd slander so?"

"Oh, I _know_ they are," Sansa confirmed, stepping forward, an almost demonic glee echoing within her voice as she spoke. "I _know_ better than anyone else, Lord Tywin. Except, what's the difference between the mobs, and the rich? The people..."

"Who would swallow and devour us all, if given the chance?"

"Except their pretensions fall far shorter, don't they? Knights want to be lords, lords wish to become a great lord, gain wealthier lands, a better castle, better marriages and the such. And Great Lords think, '_how about royalty_, _a Prince for my daughter, why am I not fit to name myself a King, as in the Age of Heroes? And if I can't claim the Iron Throne for myself, can I, but I can claim it for another, however tenuous their claim, and reap for myself all the rewards, all the benefits, the riches?'_" Suddenly, she found herself facing the old man eye to eye, feeling his breath upon her, breathing onto him in turn.

"Except the people, the rotten mobs, the dirty and ignorant masses, the _sheep_...all they want is shelter, a warm bed, food to feed their families...and something to believe in. A good bedtime story, and they'll sleep happy...unlike our beloved lords...stories aren't enough to satisfy them, are they? They've seen through all the stories, all the codes, the songs, the dim and the clever ones all the same as greedy as a hungry mob. I used to believe in the songs too, of Florian and Jonquil...of the Reynes of Castamere, except I see that man before me now, and I see that he's no legend, no lyric nor verse beyond the understand of men..._just a man._ No more. No less. So I ask you, Lord Tywin, whom do you fear more, whom _should we_ fear more? The disillusioned, or the feeble?"

He didn't answer her. So she'd won this battle, if not the war.

"My father respected the Night's Watch," she continued, the pursued the huntress now. "He ensured that Castle Black received its share of fighting men, almost ten thousand before Rhaegar's usurpation, I recall my Council appraising me. _The strongest the Watch has been,_ Jon Arryn told me," mimicking the old man's accent, "_since the days of the Conqueror._"

"Yes," Tywin answered, returning to life. "You think they're as easily led as your simple little mobs? Obviously you seek my help, let's not pretend here. Obviously you seek for not only I to go against my vows, but nearly ten thousand men to betray a tradition of nearly ten thousand years, or why do we meet here? A nephew of Leyton Hightower commands the Shadow Tower, just how do you think I can talk that man into breaking his sacred words, on behalf of a Queen who massacred his family?"

"Kill him then," Sansa said plainly, simply, coldly. "Kill him like you killed the Castameres and Tarbecks, it's your right as Lord Commander, isn't it? So kill him. Replace him with the hundreds of men whom he commands. Replace him with someone like the boy Grenn, I met him in Horn Hill, he's just as good of a fighting man as any highborn lad. Birth or not, people will follow a man worth following who can swing passably a sword or axe...so long as they're ordered so by their Lord Commander."

"And then what?"

His tone told her that she'd won this battle, at the very least.

_What would you give me,_ he was really asking.

"A long deserved reprieve from Castle Black, from the cold."

"Casterly Rock?"

Of course she'd expected this answer. "Lyonel Lannister is the Lord of Casterly Rock, her mother his regent. This will not change."

A smirk from the old lion. This time, it was he who turned his back on her.

"Is that it then," he asked, in a way which made her shudder, how his eyes appraised all of her, her body, her growing belly, the child underneath.

"I am a married woman," Sansa answered firmly, understanding. "Perhaps I can promise a union between your blood and mine a generation or two removed. But Edric is my own...I've _suffered_ enough in this life. I _deserve_ him, he is mine, and I will not give him up, not now, not ever. I'd die before I'd lose the man I _chose_ for me."

"Then," Tywin said, careful feet stepping away from her, back towards the alcove from where she presumed he'd entered the ruins to begin with, "I suppose we have nothing further to discuss, do we?"

"Then I suppose not."

Yet neither one of them budged, or moved to walk away first.


	37. War Without End

**The Hand - Year 305**

"Is this how you want to be remembered by, Tarly? Ruling through hostages, terrorizing this country with lies and betrayals?"

"Betrayals?" The Hand and Regent Protector to King Baelor II Targaryen forced himself to laugh, an unnatural act given both his nature and his setting. "House Frey rallied to their king, that's true. But they did nothing different than what the Swanns did for your niece, except it was a King they betrayed, not just a liege lord."

He did not want to gloat before the scornful and prostrate form of Edmure Tully, though a part of him fought his own restraint, because he'd just won in war, and however he'd won, it was a feeling he'd missed, having not tasted its sweet fruits since facing Robert Baratheon at Ashford, a carefully built reputation now dwindling after two losses, one his fault, one not his fault.

"You're a good man Tully," Randyll said, patting his prisoner on his shoulder, trying futilely to establish some kind of kinship with a vanquished yet noble enemy. For what, Tarly wondered? He'd never been the soft kind before, he'd never needed friends, nor had he any veneration for so-called Great Lords, having known and worked well enough with Mace Tyrell for much of his life. "You're diligent, you're loyal, you're faithful. It's a shame you had no choice in the matter, what with your blood ties to Queen Sansa. War's war, things happen. They'll treat you well in the Keep, I assure you of that. Afterwards...well, Riverrun's the Frey's now, a promise is a promise. But there's other lands, other castles..."

"Aye, my goodson," the ancient form of Walder Frey interrupted from the far side of the camp, "surely you see the foolishness of your dear little Queen. Heh, I've more daughters than sons, I tells ye that, countin' the bastards. Ev'ry one of them start thinkin' they're worth a castle for themselves each...not even a man like Lord Tarly would have enough kingdoms t' offer me."

Perhaps that was why he felt so ill at ease, having to work with the likes of the feeble Lord of the Crossing at the expense of admittedly decent men such as Edmure Tully. Rather than advance directly towards Acorn Hall, Randyll had ordered his men to march along the River Road directly towards Riverrun, a more northerly track which put their armies closer to the advancing Greyjoy forces, protecting their crossing of the Red Fork if and when they arrived. Obviously it made perfect sense for Lord Edmure and Tytos Blackwood, another unfortunate casualty, though necessary for Jonos's comfort, to steer his men north to meet the threat, especially before King Euron arrived in mass. The river anchored to their right flank was not an auspicious reminder, not after his last campaign and battle. Then he turned his men to face south, giving them no possibility of retreat, leaving a river lying to their rear, a risky proposition for most. A simple charge was all he'd ordered, cavalry at the front, but it didn't matter anyway, content in the knowledge that the Freys would abandon the battlefield at worst, turn actively their swords upon their liege lord at best.

Then old Walder arrived, obviously the day after the battle, no earlier, not to see to its victory, but to only to claim Riverrun, his prize. The way Edmure stared at the old man, Randyll thought he'd inflict his goodfather a worse death than what they'd said befallen Rhaegar at the Queen's hands.

_Is it worth it,_ he couldn't help but wonder. _Good men like Bronze Royce dead, good men like Edmure Tully disinherited, just so the likes of Walder Frey and his ill-gotten brood could thrive in the new world to come?_

_Stop it, _he chided himself. _ It's not your fault, not Tully's, not Walder's. It's the girl, who's gotten it in her head to overturn everything that's held this realm in place for thousands and thousands of years. It's the fault of fools like Hoster Tully and Jon Arryn, for putting such dangerous notions in her head in the first place, a Great Council of two __believing themselves arrogant enough as to __force the girl upon all Seven Kingdoms._

The following war council he let Dickon lead. His son had proven himself beyond a doubt in this last battle. Randyll had assigned him their right, to the opposite end from the Frey banners, leaving him to fare through the thickest of the fighting, so as to show no favoritism. Dickon fought admirably, leading his charge so ferociously that Randyll thought they could have indeed won the battle on their own, without even any need for the Frey betrayal.

"Any word of the Northmen?"

"They should be past Moat Cailin by now," Raymun Darry replied grimly. "Still would be close to a fortnight before they'd reach the Trident though."

And Castle Darry, Randyll thought. None of them had any illusions at what the northern wildmen would inflict upon an abandoned castle, but such was the price of their war, because the toll of defeat rang a hundredfold heavier, just ask Rhaegar or the Hightowers, or the burnt shell of his home and castle kingdoms away.

"We expect the Iron Born to arrive tomorrow," Dickon continued. "We should march then. The Queen and most of her men are scattered through the Westerlands now, word is anywhere between Casterly Rock to the Banefort."

"The terrain favors neither numbers nor skill," Kevan Lannister said next to him, like himself and Mace, three regents with not a home to return to, not occupied or burnt anyhow. "Terrain favors only terrain, it's as simple as that. My men know it. So do they, I'd assume."

It took all he had to not think about Horn Hill, though he supposed he should be thankful that the Queen's rather extreme affinities towards her own sex extended to his wife and daughter. As to the disturbing rumors that his own Samwell had betrayed his vows and family...with the possible complicity of Tywin Lannister...well, he could only deal with each problem of each day on its own. Randyll had no doubts as to the difficulties even an unlikely victory and peace could offer him...pacifying and rebuilding a broken realm, dealing with a rebellious Queen he couldn't exactly execute without being called a Queen-Regnant slayer, was that a word? Then, the thought of having to march a month through a frozen and hostile North to punish the most worrying of any Lord Commander who might be tempted ever further in discarding his sacred vows into dust.

_Fool was I to think old Tywin actually meant to take his vows seriously, but then who else could've thought differently, that he alone out of men through thousands of years would remain ever untouched by honor?_

"Get our men in marching order," Randyll ordered, "ready to go as soon as Euron Greyjoy arrives. Lord Frey," he said to Stevron, addressing Walder's eldest, "you'll accompany them along with the Riverland banners, proceed as you would down the Gold Road, I'd expect the enemy to gather at the Golden Tooth."

"Aye, the Golden Tooth's a strong fortress, give us the difficult ones, fer comin' late to the cause."

"No," Randyll countered, "because the road's easier to follow. I don't expect them to remain at the Golden Tooth, not for long."

He looked to the Westerland lords standing beside Kevan, who'd escaped before the Queen claimed their kingdom. "My men will follow Lord Kevan's lead. Andros Brax knows the mountains south of the River Road, the passes and valleys. We'll follow the Red Fork down past Wendish Town, cut through the gap here, north of Hornvale, and cut off the enemy's retreat west, away from the Golden Tooth."

"The mountains are passable," Kevan continued, "but they're not conducive to war. Our armies will be split, but it shouldn't matter. So long as our swords and our fighting will are unyielding, we can hold them off, beat them back until we're in a position to surround them."

A chill ran down his back, their tents far from sturdy enough material to hold back the winds of winter when they chose to rage. He exchanged a knowing look with Kevan, both of them thinking the same thing, fearing the same enemy. Snow. Winter, an enemy not even the hardest of men could defeat. It could be easy enough to speak of marches as they were child's play, perhaps some of the remaining men who'd survived the battles in the Reach may not know better, but most of the other lords and soldiers who gathered with them now, for whom the lands north of the Blackwater were their native lands, perhaps they were the ones who thought him a fool, to believe that an elegant plan which looked so simple upon the surface of the map could be anything but that if, or when, the season turned on them.

Yet, wolf's blood she might have, neither the Stark girl nor her lover lord held the fealty of the clouds and storms themselves, did they? The weather blind them, so would the enemy be blinded too, the weather strand them, so would the enemy be similarly trapped. Were they to be rendered lame, perched perilously upon a narrow mountain pass, it wasn't impossible that they could emerge after the thaw to find that their enemies frozen to death first.

"The roads meet at Sarsfield," Randyll looked to conclude. Across the table, he looked Dickon in the eyes, and wondered if he'd ever see his son again. The Iron Born were untested, untrusted, the Freys barely any better, so Dickon would lead the main march down the River Road, Randyll would have to trust that his son could keep in line their less reliable allies. "But I'd expect the enemy to attack somewhere close by the Golden Tooth. It's a race, to see who takes it first."

"We get there first," Dickon said, nodding to Leo Lefford, the lord of the manor in question, "we take the castle. Wait for them to besiege us, and hold out long enough for my father to catch up to their rear. Should they arrive and take the castle, Lord Leo assures me his defenses are spare, but will hold for at least several days...so we should march slowly. Let them waste men and blood wresting the castle away first, then surround them after they think they've gained the advantage"

"We won't know where the others will be for some time," Kevan continued. "This is no terrain for ravens or riders, the mountains will blind us, same as them." There was a fright in his eye that Randyll had never seen before. Perhaps the man pitied him, though the Lord of Casterly Rock stood cast out of his home for the time being, at least his walls still stood, the Queen unlikely to loot and burn down the castle of her one Targaryen ally.

Apprehension grew amongst the other lords too, as understanding dawned of what was to be expected of them. Splitting his army was a strategy Randyll would abhor in most circumstances, as it often gave the enemy the advantage in picking them off one by one, more often than not. He would not pursue it here, if it wasn't his son who led the other half of the march.

"We have to be careful," he said, trying his best to sound confident, so as to pass the feeling down to his commanders, "but we have to be quick."

_And we have to be damned lucky,_ he did not say, though the more battle-tested of the lords knew it well. _Damned lucky indeed._

* * *

**Edric**

Though he'd trust the Marbrands for the time being, Edric chose to position their encampment outside of the castle. He and Sansa slept in the open with their men, having ventured inside Ashemark only long enough for a customary feast upon their arrival. There was nothing to offer evidence to his discomfort, both Lord Damon and his son Addam seemed straightforward enough fellows, soldiers, the son an especially capable one, Edric thought. Which meant if their loyalties lay truly with Kevan Lannister, they would be honorable enough men to resist and fight fruitlessly unto death, rather than accept them in subterfuge, because indeed there was little to gain here in Ashemark beside the castle itself, many of the Marbrand banners having accompanied Kevan Lannister years ago to King's Landing, now marching back to attack their own lord on behalf of their liege lord, against their Queen.

_ Oh, loyalty, how useless is the word._

Perhaps that was why he remained uneasy, because some of the men he'd meet in the upcoming battles would be Marbrand men, and though Lord Addam assured them that he could convince them to switch allegiances once it was made clear whom their lords declared for, Edric would not rely upon that in battle, nor would a honed soldier like Addam expect him to. Though, if he were honest with himself, it was truly the ghosts of Arianne and Quentyn Martell who whispered to him to him now, taking refuge as the guest of another for the first time inside a keep which was not conquered, or did not belong to a someone trusted to himself or Daenerys Targaryen.

_If the Gods live, and they're just, there's no better place to give us justice for the Martells than here._

So when he'd received the bad news the night before they were to march east through the mountains down into the valley of the Tumblestone River, Edric was not surprised. If anything, he found himself relieved, that the divine judgment delivered was so mild indeed.

"Another uncle, another hostage," Sansa muttered to herself, reading the letter from Riverrun. Taking from the map the carving of the trout, she flung it against the tent wall, the wooden piece falling harmlessly onto the ground. "Damn the Gods, I warned him, watch the Freys! Don't trust the Freys, but do they listen, do they _ever_ listen?!"

In hindsight, he should have brought her some wine first, damn what the maesters said.

"We'll get him back," he said, though he believed little his words. Freeing a hostage like Edmure Tully would be more politics and battle, especially once they'd sent him inside the walls of the Red Keep. Much as he hated to burden his wife, politics were her battlefield, he'd be lucky if he could concentrate and get them both through this last campaign alive and victorious on the other end. "They won't wait for your uncle's northmen, they'll attack us now, fast, if they know what they're doing."

"Where," Sansa asked, barely deigning to look at the map at this point. There was little need anyway, she'd had all the roads and towns memorized by now, perhaps even more than he, though Edric still perferred to look. Next day their war councils would consist of more than two, but ever since Goatshorn Bend he preferred to consult with Sansa first, the two of them plotting their war beforehand, if they had the time and opportunity, so they could speak of like mind before their lords and ladies and Princesses.

"I don't know," he admitted. "They could be moving west on the River Road through the Golden Tooth, they could take the southerly route through Deep Den, though that'd take longer. Hells, they could be a few days march away from here now, coming down the Tumblestone. Or all three, it's really a guessing game at this point."

"What's your guess then," she asked him meanly, truculently, as if all the fault in this latest setback lay solely upon his shoulders. An unspoken accusation, Edric knew, that was not entirely untrue. And though his wife could sniff out his every emotion, including that of guilt, he could hope too that it was only their child inside her that was driving her moods at the moment. Or attributed to whatever had transpired between she and the old Lion, she'd seemed gloomier the moment she'd emerged from the ruins of Castamere, and her mood had not improved since, he realized now.

"We don't guess," he replied firmly, wanting to touch her, hold her, comfort her, but afraid to. "We don't play their games. They expect to lure us into attacking them while they're split, we don't bite. We retreat south at once, in the morning, all of us."

"Retreat?" Her tone changed, his unexpected announcement breaking her out of her sullen tantrum. "Retreat where? Back to Highgarden, back to Dorne?"

"Just Casterly Rock, we call every loyal man to come south with us. We gather there. Wherever they march from, however they split and form their armies, they'll try to be whole by the time they come out of the mountains, especially if they're expecting a long siege."

"Seems like a sound plan," Sansa muttered, looking away, almost as if she were disinterested in this vital last battle, or so he'd hope.

It was a passable plan, but it was anything but sound. Because the _sound_ thing to do was to march into the Riverlands immediately, they were close enough already. If Tarly's there, defeat him. If the enemy likely has already trod west into the mountains, then move directly south against King's Landing. Send riders to catch up and find Edmure's train, if possible. Wait and combine with the Northmen, if they're far enough south.

But hopefully before then, their movements ought be enough to induce Tarly and his allies to abandon their plans and beat a swift retreat. Edric was sure Randyll Tarly would be either pressured to relieve the capital, or enough tempted into ending the war with one last open battle, rather than dragging it out, giving more time for Benjen Stark to arrive. So battle it would be, and a frantic chase by an enemy playing catchup meant Edric had a better chance of finding a place to give battle on his terms, rather than Tarly's.

But what held him back now was the same reason he'd dallied too long in the Westerlands in the first place. Of course there had been castles to secure, there were the Baneforts to rout, there was Castamere for Sansa to meet with Tywin Lannister. But none of that had been..._necessary_, had it? His rearguard never stood much risk anyway, the meeting with Tywin could have occurred here in Ashemark another night, prior to their invasion of the Riverlands. Yet he'd held back all the same.

_"You should stay in Casterly Rock. The mountains ahead, they'll be treacherous even if we have all the passes to ourselves. One bad storm, one unlucky ambush..."_

_"No," Sansa refused, fervently shaking her head almost like a little girl throwing a tantrum. "I will not sit here and wait and not know, Edric. I can't bear it...if...if the worst happens...I'd rather stand by your side, than see a raven come bearing dark words days later. Where you go, I go."_

And their child. Into battle. Into war, a war whose end he had little control over. So he'd held back, hoping, foolishly, yet foolishly hoping that Edmure Tully could inflict the last defeat onto Randyll Tarly, or at least hold long enough for the Northmen to make it to the Trident, changing the nature of their war. That coin landed badly, so what now? An even longer march into hostile lands? A siege without end below the walls of King's Landing? His wife giving birth in a tent such as the one which sheltered them now, nary a decent maester to watch over her life and that of their child?

"We retreat to Casterly Rock," Edric heard himself repeating the words. _With all its maesters, all their medicines and potions and cures._ "Make them think it's to be a siege. Then when we've firm word that they've left the mountains, we move swiftly against them." His fingers rang upon the map, tapping the surface of the table loud enough to catch Sansa's attention.

"Oxcross," she read.

"That's the place. That's where we'll give battle. I scouted the lands there on our march north, I'll see it again on our way back to Casterly Rock. There's a hill there, northeast of the village, just before the road drops down into Oxcross. Tarly will seek to take it, I'm sure of it."

The plan sounded good enough in his head that he could almost believe in it. Sansa smiled at him, placing her hand over his, both their palms cupped at the spot which was to determine their fates. Edric thought the smile looked false, meant for his sake only.

* * *

**The Hand**

_This is all wrong._

"This is all wrong."

"It's strange, isn't it," Kevan Lannister said with a bitter laugh next to him. "Everything's gone so _right_ since we left the Riverlands...surely that could only bode for disaster ahead."

Indeed, these last steps of their campaign had been...strange, indeed. The River Road had been abandoned, Dickon hadn't heard word of the enemy anywhere even close to the Golden Tooth. Still he'd waited, as he was instructed to, until Randyll and the southern half of their army reached Sarsfield without any complications. Scouts were sent up the length of the road to Golden Tooth, then down to Oxcross...nothing, they'd all seemingly retreated to Casterly Rock.

It was a trap, Randyll knew. But his choices were little, with the Northmen moving further and further south, there were rumors that they'd even reached the Riverrun by now. Not possible, he knew, but certainly the Neck, with the Crannogment joining there, then onto the Trident. So he would not spring the trap, but he would test it all the same.

Riders were sent to Dickon, who would bring the other half of his army to Sarsfield. They'd marched immediately the next morning, arriving at a hill overlooking a small village of Oxcross below. But then, this was not then open road to Casterly Rock he'd been told of by the scouts days before. Thousands upon thousands of men were gathered in formation below, in a small semicircle at the foot of the hill, guarding the only open space between their position and the village not encumbered by woods. The forest grew thick on either side of the River Road, lining the terrain all the way into the valley below, affording himself, and his enemies, little room for maneuvering.

But it was not just the enemy which concerned him, their numbers were, again, close to even, and he did hold the high ground. It was their entrenchments, freshly dug, with hundreds of sharp pikes sticking in their direction which gave him pause. Three full rows of deadly defenses, nearly half the enemy's manpower gathered to defend each line.

"It's late," Dickon said. "We can't give battle now, the sun will set in a few hours, then we'd be charging blind."

Yet even as he spoke, his men continued lining up, arranging their rows and columns in formation almost as if his army, well over then thousand in number, was acting in unison, one living creature with its own independent will, lashing out reflexively at the sight of the enemy.

"No word for parley," he asked Stevron Frey, who'd just joined them. Lord Walder's eldest shook his head, nor did Randyll expect parley, the Queen wasn't exactly settling for anything less than the complete annihilation of her enemies these days. "We shouldn't give battle at all here. It'd be foolhardy."

"What are you sniveling about," Euron Greyjoy snarled next to him. He'd had an upsetting amount of spit hurled upon his face from this so called king in recent days, the price he bore for this troublesome yet necessary alliance. The pirate king pointed towards the banners of the Kraken arrayed at the bottom of the hill lining the outer flanks of the enemy's right. "I see those traitorous welps there! I say we charge, give them all we have, impale them against ther' own pikes."

"No," Randyll ordered as firmly as he could. The man could call himself a king, but this was _his_ army, _his_ war. He rode back to the front of his lines. "Beat the drums! Sound the horns! But we wait! We don't charge foolhardy into the enemy's trap! Let them abandon their defenses, let them attack us, then we'll destroy them!"

So they waited. And the sun continued to creep towards the western edges of the sky. Then nothing, and they continued to wait, the enemy as patient as he.

"Yer overthinkin' it," Euron snarled unhappily next to him. "It's a boy out there, aye, he got yer bit once, you gonna keep cowering ev'ry time ye meet him in battle again?"

"He's right," Andros Brax spat on his other side, an old man who, though in his sixties by now, still hulked more warrior than lord, more muscle than man. "Aye, it'll be painful, but that's war, isn't it? If they don't attack, we're not going to win this thing by hiding or running."

A younger knight rode up to them. It was Ser Melwyn Sarsfield. Though his uncle had capitulated to the Queen upon her arrival in the Westerlands, the young man had been able to induce at least a third of the family's bannermen in riding east to join Dickon just past the Golden Tooth.

"I know these lands," he said, "I used to hunt every inch of these hills. There's another way. We passed a small herd path nearly a league back of us now, where we crossed Oxcross Creek. The path follows it, shepherds and miners coming from the north use as a shortcut to the River Road. The woods are thick, but not as thick as here, aye, if they can fit a herd of sheep, then we can get men through it."

This was interesting. Why had not the man not spoken now? "It leads down to the village?"

Ser Melwyn shook his head. "Not quite. It follows the foot of the hills below us. We won't be able to cut them off, but we should be able to outflank them from the north."

"A league," Randyll muttered, looking into the eyes of the men standing at the front of his lines, eyes trembling, ready to fight and charge and die in agony at a moment's notice.

They didn't have time for it now, the sun was to set soon. But a night's march, that was a possibility, surprise the enemy in camp while they were sleeping, that was the best he could hope for. There was little to lose, if he left even a third of his men along the lines atop the brow of the hill, all the archers, those who remained could hold off an uphill enemy charge, especially since the barricades the Queen's men posted at their front would severely impede any offensive they'd wish to make themselves.

_No, they never intended to charge us at all. Yet, what if the boy knows of this pass too, could it be a trap?_

Before he could finish his thoughts, screams rang in their direction from below the hill.

"Uncle," came the voice of a young man. "Traitor! Usurper. Come and die, or are you afraid?"

"Aye, I'm not afraid," Euron screamed back, before Randyll could stop him. To his horror, at the sound of their king's barking, he saw the Iron Born raising their spears, bending their backs as if ready to charge.

"Stop it..."

"Coward! You're not a King, a King doesn't hide, a king fights, he pays the iron price!"

"I'll show ye a king!"

Fearing what was to happen, Randyll grabbed Euron violently by his shoulder, only to be thrown back, falling off his horse and colliding against the ground. Quickly Dickon ran towards him to help him up.

"Not me, boy, him," he pointed at Euron, but it was too late. Raising his sword, the insane man jumped off his horse and ran wildly down the hill, followed by all three thousand of his men, leaving a gaping hole at the center of his lines. Seeing the charge, Andros Brax screamed, and began riding downhill as well, another two thousand abandoning their positions, as Randyll tried to desperately tally the count in his head.

"Stop, hold the line! We do not advance. We stay!" Immediately, Dickon rose too, repeating the same orders, Kevan, Melwyn, all of them, commanding their reserves to fill in the gaps even as the fools were already halfway down the hill. A few more hundred here and there, caught up in the fervor, joined their compatriots, but most of the rest obeyed, eyes watching in disbelief and horror at the massacre now enfolding at the base of the hill.

The moment the charge began, the enemy soldiers at the front of the trenches immediately withdrew in order, each shift through the thin gaps connecting the trenches, five wide, maybe seven at the most, Randyll saw, with their rearguard clearing way for the newest arrivals. Then tens of thousands of arrows blanketed the sky, falling upon the fools who found themselves fighting not men, but themselves, soldiers grappling at each other now, falling by the dozens into the deadly trenches as they tried to crowd their way through the lines, before even the storm of arrows came and induced even more panic, turning what had never been an orderly offensive in the first place into a chaotic, bloody mess. Most of his men were dying before they even reached the reformed front line of the enemy, and by then, charging only in columns of a few at a time, he watched as they were cut down one by one, the Queen's army barely suffering any losses.

To his left, he saw Euron Greyjoy leading a small band of his most loyal followers through a small gap between the furthest right of the enemy trenches, many of his men running through the trees, meeting their fellow Iron Born adversaries in a more typical sort of open battle. But they stood no chance either, not without support. He turned his head. "You see those fools! They'll die to the last men, they just wasted their lives, and ours with their stupidity!"

Few replied, though Randyll wondered whether they feared more his voice, or the spectacle of slaughter below.

"At least we didn't _all_ charge head first into that trap," Kevan said, trying to assure him. "Good thinking."

There was no time for recriminations, they couldn't afford it. With no other choices afforded them either, so they continued to wait, the last of fools surrendered or slaughtered to the last man before the sun had set.

"Start digging trenches," he ordered, once satisfied that night had come, and there was no further possibility of battle until the following morning. He turned to Kevan. "I'll have the Freys and Darry's standing sentry through the night. Keep the fires going, so the enemy won't think to charge us, not yet, anyhow. The rest of us will retreat, follow Oxcross Creek, the Knights of the Vale will form our rear. Get us down the hill before dawn, and we still have a chance to surprise them while they're sleeping."

A chance, that's what it came down to. A chance growing slimmer by the day, even as each day grew longer.

* * *

**Edric**

"Any word on the Marcher men?"

"They haven't seen any signs of the enemy along the Gold Road," Brienne answered. "I've ordered them to return north the moment we'd heard the enemy was within a day's march of Oxcross, ride through the night if need be."

Edric breathed a sigh of relief, then cursed, wishing he had more men. He'd had to leave the Crakehall banners in Oldtown to keep the peace for Myrcella Stark, then nearly another hundred Stormlanders in Highgarden along with most of the Unsullied for Lady Jeyne. The soldiers were no longer slaves, yet it was pointless to give them lands near Horn Hill, which had been their original plan, given that none of them could have children to pass it down to. Nevertheless they seemed happy to be fed well, to be paid coin and the such, so he supposed a replenishment of Highgarden Bannermen would serve good use for the former slaves.

Except he'd rather have them here. With the arrival of the Greyjoys and other houses through the kingdoms who'd turned after Goatshorn Bend, it posed already too near an even trade. Except he'd also sent home the most exhausted of his Dornishmen, the wounded and tired, along with some Dondarrion and Tarth banners, those who'd born the brunt of both their battles thus far. They would prove little useful in this battle anyway, but yet...in hindsight, he'd still rather have them here.

He had enough, he thought. The enemy's foolish charge had dwindled Tarly's numbers somewhat, enough to give him confidence in a victory tomorrow even if Caron and the marcher men were late in arriving. The pirate Queen Yara had died in the fighting, unfortunate, Edric thought, but then Sansa had meant to have her killed after the war anyway, so it mattered little. If anything, judging by the furious look in Theon Greyjoy's eyes when they impaled his uncle onto one of the pikes, wounded but still alive, the Iron Born would be more than ready to do their part in the battle to come.

_What next_, he'd wondered, watching the pirates cutting a crown of blood through flesh around the brow of Euron Greyjoy, _do we invite King Theon to Starfall? Bid him dine at my table, then cut his throat while he eats? Or do I stab him with Ice while he sleeps?_

He saw Sansa approaching him, her steps nearly slowed to a crawl by her burden.

"Shh, you should sleep," he said, cradling his arm around her gently.

"I don't think I'll be able to sleep tonight."

Not good, the maesters wouldn't like that. But at least she was close enough to Casterly Rock. If the Queen had to ride out with her soldiers for one last battle, better that his wife had spent the last days resting in bed beforehand, doing nothing except cursing all the Gods that she could not have her wine.

"Me either."

Though he held her, Edric could not help but keep his eyes, and his mind, to trees enshrouded beyond. Somewhere out there was that little path by the creek he'd discovered, which led all the way up to the Rose Road above them. He was sure Tarly would find it, filled as his retinue was of Westerlands knights from the area. Their timing had worked perfectly, actually, the enemy's arrival to the hill in the evening ensured that they could not retreat and advance down that path that same day. A night attack, surely then, to hit what had been his left flank today, his center tomorrow. But they were prepared. A man such as Tarly would beat a sensible retreat here on most occasions, but Edric knew that was not an option here, not with so many losses weighing upon is reputation already, not with the northern threat in his rear. Surprise would the one advantage Tarly would think remained in his grasp, and Edric knew already to deny it.

His lines would be turned and ready to meet the advance before dawn. The head of the enemy charge would be thinned, both by the nature of the terrain they'd have to traverse through, as well as the lines they'd been obliged to leave atop the hill to maintain the subterfuge. The men who'd attacked prematurely earlier that evening...well, that had surely been an added gift from the Gods, Edric supposed.

Surprisingly, he slept nearly an hour or two that night, dreaming of blood as he sat upright in his cot, his wife's legs settled across his lap while she slumbered. It was quiet when he woke, but Edric was sure that was not to last, it was almost as if his body could feel the rhythm of the battle already proceeding invisibly around him now. Leaving his wife wordlessly, he donned his armor and rode out, where Brienne was already waiting.

Given the terrain and the darkness, the enemy would not know their lines were already changed and formed until they rode within sight. With the first sentries riding back and giving word of what Randyll Tarly still probably thought the most cunning ambush, Edric gave the order for the Iron Born to charge from their position at what had been the extreme right of their lines, now their rear. Thus the true battle began, the pirate warriors screaming and running up the hill along with the Dornish battalions who'd remained, striving to decimate the separated enemy front before they could mount a counterattack against his trenches to distract his well protected right flank, however feebly, from of the brunt of the main attack coming from their north.

He thought he saw some hesitation in the distant masses, presumably the precise moment they'd discerned through the earliest morning light that their surprise was to be for naught. Yet they came nevertheless, through the onslaught of arrows he'd then ordered launched.

"They're spreading out," Edric realized, screaming his orders. "That means they're thinning. Maintain our formations, and we'll hold."

Riding to the rear, he found Addam Marbrand, ordering his cavalry to try and outflank the enemy's right, his left, on the opposite end of the hill facing Oxcross, and Casterly Rock beyond. And just as he was about to ride forward and join them, came the good news he'd been awaiting. First a scout carrying a Caron banner, then Lord Bryce accompanied by the Swann brothers. With little need of horses with their trenched defense, he'd sent the bulk of his cavalry to scout the Gold Road. Now, they'd returned just when they were most needed, all the better for having lured Tarly down at the illusion of having to face a smaller army than what opposed him now.

Looking back up the hill, Edric gripped the reins of his horse in satisfaction, watching the Iron Born sweeping furiously against the enemy's exposed left flank, pursuing them as they fled in every which direction.

"Sweep their right," Balon Swann asked with a smirk upon his face.

"Sweep their right," Edric agreed, nodding, as the first clang of swords against shield rang out to his front. "Let's fucking end this thing."

* * *

**Sansa**

A lone rider approached her on a chilly, sunny morning. The battle was already over, thousands of enemy dead scattering the field upon the modest farmlands lying outside the village, thousands more surrendered in what was clearly a fruitless cause now.

"We found him," Edric said.

"Lannister?"

"He's wounded pretty badly. Won't make it through the day. I'll have him brought to the front."

The Queen nodded, and beckoned for her wheelhouse. Riding a horse was impossible for her now, even her soldiers understood that, and did not begrudge her for her current fragile state. At the edge of the battlefield and the masses of corpses, Edric awaited her. She'd told him to inform her of the fates of all her worst traitors. Tarly they'd captured alive. He would've probably fought to his death, he would've been smart to, but then all the hundreds of men around him had already dropped their swords in surrender, so the frustrated and defeated so-called Hand had little choice of his own when it was all said and done. His son Dickon had died in the battle, and that was a shame. Given that, unlike the Hightowers or Tyrells, he had no home and thus, no inheritance of Myrcella's or Jeyne's to threaten, Sansa had planned a great, grand gesture for sparing his life, taking only his hands, for the crime of raising his arms against her.

Gerold Grafton was dead. Raymun Darry captured, Jonos Bracken too. The Hardyng boy from the Vale had run, though she was certain their men would catch up to him somewhere along the Rose Road within days. Walder Frey had never made the journey, holing up in her uncle's castle at Riverrun instead, but Sansa also had little doubt his own stewards would turn him in the moment they heard of the battle. _"Bring them alive,"_ she would write that night. _"Bring them all alive to me."_

Edric pointed to the ground. Kevan Lannister was alive, but barely. Blood ran through his armor in several spots, from one armpit, and his opposite hip. Recognition dawned in the traitors eyes, barely gazing up at the Queen who stood tall and proud before his inert and defeated form. Lips moved, but no sound emerged from his mouth.

"We should probably make sure he suffers what he can." She pointed to a nearby corpse. Drawing upon what strength she had remaining, she bent down and lifted at the feet of the body. Seeing her meaning, Edric dragged upwards the corpse's shoulders, then Arya, who'd joined still fresh from the battlefield, helping her with the other leg. Together, they carried the body over and dropped it onto the dying form of Kevan Lannister. Then another, then another, husband, wife, and sister working silently and grimly together to ensure that this worst of the traitors would die covered and surrounded by the stench and most vivid drippings of death.

* * *

"She's beautiful."

The neatly trimmed fingernails of the Targaryen princess brushed lightly against the skin of the babe cradled within the Queen's arms.

"She has Edric's nose," Sansa said, winking at the most unlikely friend she'd ever made in her life. "I like his nose." When she laughed, it was one of relief, the very emergence of breath giving her almost a sensation of pleasure.

"She'll be a great Queen one day," Daenerys said, lounging back into her chaise, both women content to enjoy their wine in peace and luxury for the moment. "Queen Minisa of House Stark...First of Her Name."

If Minisa's nose was Edric, most of her daughter was all Stark. Or Tully. Or Whent, even. Perhaps her grandpapa knew, that this child would be _the_ one, and waited long enough to bless her with the features of Sansa's grandmother, carried down to its fourth generation since. Light auburn hair, lighter than her own. Blue eyes, though closer to Edric's shade of azure than her's, but her cheeks were hers, like her father's. And if the child had less Dayne in him, her husband did not mind, he'd fallen in love with their daughter immediately, same as she. He'd left them this morning, almost in tears, saying farewell for the day before leaving to inspect and drill his men, mere hours parted feeling more like a fortnight to him, he'd confided to her.

Outside the sun shone behind the walls to the castle, the cliffs overlooking the Sunset Sea still concealed within shadows on their side of Casterly Rock. Setting her wine down for the moment, Daenerys looked to her left, away from the window, and rocked the small crib where her son slept peacefully. It was the servants who'd brought the makeshift bed here, where Sansa resided now, the very same chambers where Daenerys had slept and given birth to Lyonel in, and rocked him in her arms their very first days together. Lancel's chambers remained empty, Sansa feeling little urge to sleep in a bed which had once carried that...that man. The Princess's former chambers were more than comfortable enough for her and Edric, Dany long having moved into the Lord's chambers. A practical risk for the Princess, considering Kevan Lannister was certain to never try and reclaim it again.

"I haven't felt this way for some time now," Sansa said, feeling drowsy herself. Soon she'd sleep, with her child next to her. Occasionally Edric could join them for their little naps, taken blissfully as a family. "So relaxed...peaceful..."

"I suppose I'd felt the same way after Lyonel's birth," the Princess remarked, "so long as my lord husband didn't bother us." Taking another sip of her wine, she leaned forward, placing her small, bare elbows against her knees, eyes cast conspiratorially in Sansa's direction. "Can I confide in you a secret?"

"Should I worry," she asked with a smile.

Daenerys looked again to her son. "I love Lyonel. He is my everything. Yet, when I...when I think of being relaxed, being at peace somewhere..."

"It's not here?"

"No," she answered guiltily, looking away.

"The mummer's theatre in Braavos?"

"Maybe," Daenerys whispered softly, thoughtfully. "Or the Summer Isles. Or maybe, just maybe...I think...it's...it's not any_ one_ place. It's...I can't put my fingers on it...do you know...those last days before you're about to leave for another? The excitement in your bones, your very breath quicker, more eager? I remember feeling it, about to sneak away from my brothers and take a boat to Westeros for the first time. Or travelling on that journey to Braavos. Or the Summer Isles...beautiful as they were...I feel like I savored the boat ride there better. My eyes had never seen the place before...yet I could imagine it, oh I could imagine all of it, the wonderful waterfalls, the colorful butterflies, clear waters as light as...well, as your eyes...all this I could see in my mind..."

"You had your toy sellsword with you too."

"I did," the Princess reminisced fondly, rubbing her glass between her thumb and forefinger. Then, her eyes grew concerned. "I'm sorry Your Grace. I didn't mean to brag...you haven't had the chance to travel as I have, have you? Not out of war, or for your life even, but...but for pleasure, I suppose."

"No, I haven't," Sansa said, her eyes mesmerized by the rhythms of the waves below, the first glints of the afternoon sun falling against the further horizon. Soon, the day would be warm enough where Sansa could sit by her window and almost imagine that it was spring. "I do envy you though, Daenerys. If what you say is true, then...I think your happiest days lie still in your future."

"You don't think the same for yourself," she replied, curiously.

"I think I'll be sitting on my throne again soon." A sip of her wine. "I don't imagine that'll be peaceful, not by any means, every lord and girl and boy eyeing you, imagining with greedy minds how they'd carve off a piece of you for themselves."

Tarly and all the surviving lords sat securely in their dungeons below. The letters were sent, all she had to do was wait now, for the time being. Wait. Drink. Eat. Love Edric. Love her child. Not dread in her mind with anticipation of what was to come.

"No," Daenerys chuckled mirthfully, "I don't imagine I envy you at all there."

"I think about my happiest moments," Sansa said, twirling the wine in her hand, watching the thick, crimson liquid twist in turn, trapped inside its own private storm. "My family, my father, my mother. Winterfell. Playing with Robb and Jon in the fields. Listening to my grandpapa tell his stories."

"All of this before they named you a Queen," Daenerys asked knowingly.

Sansa nodded knowingly. "Nary a happy moment since. But then...there's one exception. Those first days after I'd...when I'd first come to Starfall. Edric and I rode through the hills for days on end, Arya too, we'd go and meet arriving armies, or just study at the land, ready ourselves for the war to come. Except, sometimes, I think, we rode, just to _ride_. Just to feel free, just to...to _go_, because we can. I don't think I'd ever left a castle before that, or the roads in between. Then here we are, bathing in hidden springs and sleeping, making love in lush coves where I could imagine...imagine that no other man has stepped foot in before. Places whose secrets were hidden from all except those who stood atop a dragon, until we'd discovered them."

"It was the calm before the storm," Daenerys agreed, reading her.

"It was," Sansa affirmed. "It's where Edric and I first started to fall for each other, I think. To truly know the other...know ourselves. And I told myself to savor it, Dany, I really did even then, because I knew...that, come the war, that this could be the last happy moment I'd have in my life."

"You'll return there one day then," she replied, her voice carrying as much authority as Sansa had heard from her. "I'm sure of it. The storm's over now."

"I hope so."

But for one reason or another, she was less sure of it than Daenerys. Because the storm wasn't yet over. Because the storm was yet to come, because the storm never ended, not for a Queen.

* * *

**Margaery**

_"The Gods have cursed me, to give me a Crown, then force me to win it by war, through blood, when so many who've come before my reign did not so as much as lift a finger from their coronation to their grave. Yet the Gods bless me too, because they have decided with undeniable firmness the righteousness of my reign, my Throne, with each battle seen before my very eyes. Surely the judgment of the Gods has been laid bare for all the realms to witness, surely not one word can be said without heresy to deny it._

_Yet the war continues. Yet my enemies persist. They hold as hostage my son Baelor, then dare to claim him a King in captivity. Not only do they defy their rightful Queen, they force a mother to continue making war against her son, war against him in name._

_So be it. I've had enough of this war without end. I've won the war. King's Landing will fall, sooner or later. But perhaps my enemies know my weakness, they know the pain which inflicts itself upon a mother's heart to continue waging war upon her son, in the grief and agony a Queen feels for her people when they might still die by the thousands in her name, though the war is won and the verdict moot. I know the fate the Gods have chosen for me, my destiny. I've no need to further prove my cause, my inheritance. _

_So the Gods decided in war, let them decide the peace afterwards. Let us lay down our swords, our shields. Let us forge ahead in this new spring, a fresh new beginning for these seven ancient and hallowed kingdoms. I thus invite all the lords of the realm, be they friend or foe, whether they've bloodied their swords or stood by their hearths through this War of Ice and Fire. So as the Great Councils of men have decided the fate of the Crown and the Seven Kingdoms before me, let the Greatest of Councils meet one last time upon the banks of the Blackwater, let us speak, and argue, and reason, so that the good people of this realm do not have to suffer more our grievances._

_The Queen is satisfied with her war. She is also satisfied that the enemies who'd committed the grossest crimes against King Eddard the Just and his family have been justly punished. She remains certain that the Gods will decide in her favor here, as they did in war. She remains confident in this statement, that Sansa I Stark is the rightful and undisputed Queen Regnant of the Andals, Rhoynar, and the First Men, that her trueborn daughter, the Princess Minisa Stark, her first and indisputable heir._

_But let all the lords submit their choice to rule the Seven Kingdoms. Let the claims of Baelor Stark be considered, or Joffrey Martell, legitimate son of Prince Robb Stark. Let even the claims of the vanquished dragons be put forth too, that of Prince Viserys and his blood, or the Princess Daenerys, if only so as to affirm through all seven kingdoms the peaceful conclusion to the dynasty of the dragons. Let the lords debate the merits of Princess Arya, or Benjen Stark, or his children, or Jon Stark, son of Lyanna. Or if it's the will of the lords, and thus the Gods, that a new dynasty be chosen, Arryn, Dayne, Lannister or Poole, let the new world reign without controversy, without dispute, as agreed to by the men and women who'd represent every great corner of our proud realm._

_As a gesture of goodwill for the peace to come, I release those lords who did not choose their treason, who felt but compelled in following their lords into it, among them Mathis Rowan, Warryn Beesbury, Tanton & Edwyd Fossoway, Orton Merryweather, etc. So I also pardon all those who do not remain in my captivity as of this day, except for the vile beast who murdered the Princes Bran & Rickon Stark in cold blood._

_Sansa I Stark_  
_Queen Regnant_  
_The Most Faithful"_

"What do you think?"

"I don't think we have much of a choice, do we?"

Thought the thought brought her to tears, Margaery Tyrell had long come to the conclusion by now that her father Mace may not live to see the peace which would follow what the Queen referred to as the War of Ice and Fire. Her father knew this too, she thought, his face seemed thinner these days, his frame gaunter, his breath weaker with each subsequent scroll from the south, the death of one son after another, the awarding of Highgarden to the girl Jeyne who, if Margaery had to be honest with herself, was something of a bitch. To her, at least, and the former handmaiden's exile to Horn Hill had been one of the least troublesome aspects to this whole wretched business ever since the destruction of the Great Sept.

Not that Margaery expected herself to live either. The siege was what they'd expected, especially once they heard about Horn Hill and the prospect of twenty thousand northmen, give or take a few ten thousand, marching south. King's Landing's walls would fall sooner or later, so the poison was readied, painless, they'd told her. Her father would take it, she'd take it...but little Aegon...she couldn't imagine her hands actually pouring the clear drops from the vial into her son's mouth, barely a few months old. So what was the difference then, truly, between suffering such a fate inside a crumbling castle, or half a fortnight's ride up the Blackwater where the Queen had called this council, where the Gold Road made the upper of its two crossings along the Blackwater Rush, should the invitation prove a trap.

"I don't know which woman wrote this," she said. "The girl I knew as a dear friend, Robb's little sister. Or the woman who ordered the deaths of my brothers and all the Hightowers."

_And what of the in between, when we made her who she is?_ Not that she had much of a choice in the matter, or even her father. It all seemed a blur then, everything swirled and scrambled out of their control from the very day the Great Sept had been destroyed, by whom, only the Gods knew. Of course Margaery pitied the girl, it had been for the best, hadn't it? To keep the peace in the realm, pacify the country, prevent an all out rebellion from men who'd suspect poor Sansa of the worst concerning the Sept, who'd do far worse things to her than merely marrying her to a Targaryen King. It was a shame, really, for the arrival of just one stray but admittedly handsome Dornish Kingsguard to have ruined everything for everyone.

Their own Small Council was reduced to three, herself, her father, and Lord Renly. Margaery had to admire the latter's choice, knowing his gamble might well lose, yet choosing the same course anyway. He'd always been a friend to their family, so would it not be perfectly appropriate for him to share their tragic fate, though he could have easily chosen otherwise.

_Oh Loras, if only you could see us now. You'd be sad. But you'd be proud too, of your beloved Renly, for his faithfulness. _

"Wishful thinking isn't going to help us," Renly grumbled. "We need a solid plan of action here."

"We have Baelor," her father said, his face worn with guilt, that they would need to use the life of a child to save their own. "We have her uncle Lord Tully."

"And it's his claim we continue to champion," Renly said clearly, Margaery could tell that he was taking charge of their small group. "We wait it out, until we know that indeed it's the whole of the realm that she's summoned to the Blackwater. We don't leave the capital until we know that all the lords have arrived, ones who may not have fought in the war, ones whose names still carry respect and repute, who don't continue to bear grievances from all the wars of the last ten years. So that if anything happens to us, if the Queen goes back onto her word, the entire country is watching. I don't expect many lords to champion Viserys's or Aegon's claims, so we state openly that their claims are forfeit forever. Then, we become King Baelor's strongest supporters at the Council, so they'll see we're not attending it for our own selfish reasons."

_Is it selfish, to just want to live, to want your child and your father, the last you have of your family, to live?_

"We give them Viserys, don't we?" She felt no sadness in saying the words. If anything, there was glee, the only silver lining to end this rotten business, that her husband would die, preferably before them, and suffer far worse than they.

Nor did she care about Aegon's claim, because he had none, really, and Margaery thought it ironic that this one secret which had protected her from Viserys so far may well be the same one to save her son's life. Highgarden was out of the question, her father had acknowledged this too. Margaery would give all she had to be allowed to settle in a small, friendly castle, live out the rest of her life as a mother, as a daughter. Ashford, perhaps, she was friendly with their daughter, and they'd declared for Sansa after Goatshorn Bend, so if anyone could call in a favor...

"We bring him to the Council in chains," Renly agreed. "Give him to the Queen's mercy, hope that it's enough to satisfy her bloodlust, well-deserved in his case, I might add."

But likely, she'd die. Her father would die. And she reconciled with that truth in her heart, if only Aegon could live, if only Renly could somehow survive this mess and see to that. If not, maybe it would have to be Renly who'd pry the poison from her cold hands, then offer her son one last mercy.


	38. The Holiest Queen

**Margaery**

Each day's ride along the Blackwater saw the sun last longer in the sky than the one before, and she could only hope that this augured well for her. After all, if the Starks were winter, shouldn't spring bring forth the roses? Then she chided herself for clinging to such foolish hopes, but what was the harm in hoping, better her last days be brightened, better to slip away from life in a happy trance than depart for the realm of the Gods kicking and screaming.

As Renly had advised, they'd sent letters proclaiming their intent to attend the Council in good faith, guaranteeing the safety of King Baelor, or Prince, or whatever they'd call him until the Council's conclusion. But then they'd waited. Perhaps it was a sign of the Gods for Sansa in that the Northmen, already deep in the Crownlands when the Council had been called, had been the first to arrive, setting up camps on either side of the two villages bordering the crossing, Eastwater and Westwater, those were their names. Then came letters from Brigette Rowan, who'd accompanied her father, newly pardoned by a newly merciful Queen, who wrote to tell her that most of the northern bannermen had returned back north, that it was only Benjen Stark and his lords who'd remained south. Letters then heralded the Queen's arrival, a few Lords of the Vale passed through King's Landing first, before continuing up the Blackwater, Margaery holding court for them out of courtesy, though she dared speak little of politics, much less sit on an empty throne, no, she fed them and poured them wine and assured them that the Tyrells had nothing to do with Rhaegar's plots, his religions, that her father bore no grudges against the Queen, that they'd remain loyal to whomever the Council would choose.

Finally word came that the many Dornish lords and ladies accompanied the Lady and Regent Ellaria had emerged the other side of Prince's Pass, so then they departed the capital with a hundred armed men, enough to protect themselves against a small roving band of assassins, not enough to be threatening to a Queen who'd very likely order their deaths at the slightest provocation. It was the Dornish camps they rode through, on the furthest outskirts of the small yet burgeoning half city arising amidst empty fields still barren and dry from winter.

"Maj'ry. Maj'ry?"

"What, sweet child?"

Sansa Stark's silver haired son opened his arms at her the moment she emerged from her wheelhouse, Baelor already standing on his own outside, accompanied by one of her ladies. Handing Aegon off to another handmaiden, Margaery walked over and took the older child into her arms.

"Maj'ry," Baelor said contently, wrapping his little arms around her neck, resting his head against her shoulder. "I'm hungry, Maj'ry."

"Look over there," Margaery said, pointing towards a small tent being set up by the servants. "Do you see that, Baelor? No more riding, that's where you're sleeping tonight, tomorrow too! Come! Let's walk there together, be a dear boy, be patient, I've heard they've got some pudding for you if you're good, do you hear?"

"Pudding," the boy exclaimed happily, taking her hand as she walked him towards his tent. "'Nilla, Maj'ry?"

"Of course, vanilla, your favorite!"

She'd long learnt how to cater to the tastes of this little thing they'd proclaim a King. Seeing Baelor happily settled in, Margaery found herself wandering. She'd nursed Aegon earlier that day, her ladies were taking care of him now, though she thought it a strange feeling, that Aegon was her first born, yet he felt like her second child. Baelor tried calling her _"mama"_, when he first began speaking, but she'd carefully but firmly rebutted him from the beginning.

_"No Baelor," she'd chided gently, waving one finger before his purple eyes. "Not mama. Margaery. Margaery, can you say my name Baelor? Margaery."_

He really was a sweet boy, as happy as any child could be, Margaery thought, considering he'd never properly met either his mother or father, not with any lasting impression or memory of them anyhow. But he was also surely a Targaryen, not just by look. His tantrums, though rare, could shake the whole castle...except they'd all learned soon enough that it was only _Maj'ry_ could make the crying stop, putting the little dragon to rest as easily as one quiet whisper, a story told, a song, when he was at his worst.

_"You're going to see your mother soon, Baelor. Aren't you so excited?"_

_Her words had only drawn confusion from his eyes. "Not Maj'ry?"_

_"No. Your mother. The Queen. Queen Sansa."_

"Lady Margaery!"

"Oh Brigette," she said, taking the younger girl into a fierce hug. "How fares you, how have you been, this war, it's so awful!"

"I just thank the Gods papa lives," Brigette answered, one of her oldest friends, whom she'd remembered playing in the gardens with when they were both so young. "It's not been bad, Lord Ashford's been kind. But...," the freckled, brown haired girl looked away, "I think of home...they saw if you walk into Goldengrove you'd think it's been abandoned for a hundred years now...but, but...papa lives, we all live. So many of us aren't so lucky..."

Brigette's voice trailed off, as Margaery squeezed her friend's hands. "The war's been so cruel to all of us, from the simple farmer to the greatest lords to the Queen herself. We can only give thanks that it's over, that no more blood will be shed."

If Margaery feared what the _Queen herself_ would do to her and her family, she found herself surprised by the...well, the lack of reaction from Sansa when they finally met again. She hadn't expected her old friend to joyously embrace her, or thank her, when they brought Viserys before her makeshift court on the opposite side of the Blackwater, bound in a cage, covered in his own filth. The Queen merely nodded, and as her men took the cage away to the Gods knew where, Sansa's cold, dead eyes did not blink, observing the tense scene as if merely reading the tedious scrolls of the taxes collected from this village or that. She'd expected her old friend to scream at her, launch into a furious tirade, betray her at least a single dirty look, at least let her know what to expect...yet she failed to find satisfaction in even having the worst of her fears realized.

"Your son Baelor," she presented, careful to not bring any mention of his title, or House name.

There had been no reaction either, though Margaery was sure Sansa could not have missed how scared Baelor had been, clinging to his _Maj'ry_ whilst meeting his mother for the first time since the boy possessed the ability to meet anyone. But the Queen merely nodded, then that awful girl Jeyne took the whimpering child away from her. Edmure, captured in battle by Randyll Tarly, Renly thought it better not to make a big show of his release. They'd instead let him go early, shortly upon their arrival, her father personally accompanying the Lord of Riverrun to where his other Riverland lords were camped, the ones who hadn't fought against him at least...most of the latter she'd heard remained in the cells at Casterly Rock.

"It would seem we were indeed amongst the last to arrive," Renly said after supper that night, having walked through all the grounds before the evening, dining and drinking with all his old friends from court and past tourneys, as if the war had never happened, as if he'd not straddled both sides of the war, as Margaery suspected. "All the claims will be presented tomorrow. The Queen expects the voting to occur the day after that. Lacking a winner, further arguments will be placed for each claim drawing some semblance of support, and then a second round, and such and such we go."

"The Queen's rules are strange," Monford Velaryon noted. "If it comes down to who gets the most votes, I'd think she has a good chance of winning with the first go at it."

"But if she loses the first round of voting," Margaery pointed out, "then it's over, she has no further recourse."

"No doubt," Renly agreed, before explaining, "it's going to be her or Baelor. But with more than two claims at hand, likely neither one of them will receive the half they need to clinch things. Done this way, she'd have a better sense of where she stands, and what she needs to do to, whom and how many she needs to win over still, without risking losing her crown with the first vote."

"I've heard word the Dornish are openly championing the claim of Prince Joffrey," Margaery added. The whispers came alongside a most enjoyable evening of food and wine with her old friends from the Reach, hearing more than enough to give her a decent grasp of the matter, as if she'd been present for a fortnight already. And it was just so _pleasant_...how easy was it for her to imagine that she'd stumbled back into her happy past, that she had a home, that she did not need to constantly fret about her life and the survival of her family, her son.

"The Dornish hold out, then that ensures no one gets more than half after one round," Renly said thoughtfully. "It makes perfect sense. Sansa gathers her levels of support, tallies her count, then the Dornish change their minds, the Council's over, vengeful Queen back atop her throne."

A nervous chuckle, because Renly knew the stakes. Perhaps that was why she'd called the Council, just to watch them struggle, scurrying like rats to save their own lives, grasping at the faintest straws of hope.

"Is it really such a disaster if she wins," Monford asked. "Seems Her Grace has been in a forgiving mood of late, what with the war being over. You won't get Highgarden back, my son might lose Driftmark altogether...but...seems if we support her now, it's still better than defying her."

It was not a foreign thought to Margaery. Then she exchanged a look with her father, and they both understood why.

_Father signed the invitation to crown Rhaegar. He'll be lucky if he lives out the rest of his life on the Wall._

Yet, that thought didn't stop her from stumbling her way across the bridge later that night, praying the Queen had yet to sleep. Most of the wine had left her body by the time she'd approached the Sansa's tent. Recognizing her little sister, Margaery withstood her death glare long enough as they both waited by the entrance, before the Queen's young lover...no, Prince and husband, she corrected, beckoned her inside.

Robb's little sister had grown. Sansa had always been tall, now she seemed a giant, behind her desk, the dim light of the candles on either side of her bathing her pale skin in an eerie glow, giving the Queen a near mystical aura, as if she were some strange witch of Asshai with the most unnatural of powers.

"Your Grace," she bent her knee properly, "I thank you for seeing me at this late hour..."

"Shut up," came the cross reply. _ Finally, honesty, show me your truest heart. _"Why are you here?"

_Give me your poison now, all of it, let me be the one to bear the burden._

"Your Grace," Margaery began again smoothly, having fully expected the admonishing from Sansa, "whatever, complications, which may have arisen..."

"Speak what you came to speak of, no more, or I'll have Edric take your head here and now."

"Very well," she said, remaining on her knee, bending her neck down towards her feet, as if she would invite the blow herself. Yet, the fact that the Queen had _not_ ordered her executed on sight seemed...seemed promising? "I...Baelor is a sweet child, a bright child. I believe he will grow to be a good king...a good man...but, you did win this war, didn't you?"

The Queen's cold stare beckoned her to not mince words, her silence somehow an even more urgent inducement to truly get to the point of it all.

"Your Grace, I don't expect Highgarden. I don't expect my father to retain any titles after all this. But...spare his life, let him live somewhere...somewhere warm, not at Castle Black. Take my life if need be, but my son, I beg you...we have some influence still, Lord Renly as well. If you can promise that...all will be forgotten...then _all_ will be truly forgotten. Whatever remains of House Tyrell, we won't bother you ever again. Just let us live, in peace...and...and...between what influence we have left, I'm sure we can ensure that this Council will decide in your favor, _quickly_."

It was not the deliberating eyes of the Queen which terrified her now, but that of the Young Star behind her, whom they said was the Stranger himself when set upon the battlefield. Two swords hung at his belt, one belonging to Sansa's father, Margaery knew...and the other she'd recognized as the Valyrian blade which once hung astride the hip of Randyll Tarly.

"If this Council proclaims in my favor," the Queen began, "and it _will_, I assure you, your father would be lucky to eke out what life he can on the isle of Skagos. As for you, my _dearest_ Lady Margaery...I suppose Bear Island is as much mercy as you'd deserve, for everything you've done."

_Everything I've done? _

_You bitch._

_I wasn't the one flaunting my affair with a Kingsguard before all the court, I wasn't the one who killed my own brothers out of my negligence and stupidity!_

_Control yourself, Margaery._ "And my son?"

The Queen ignored her. "Even if the lords select Baelor, do you think I won't have my influence in my son's court? You're right, I _did_ win this war, my dear Edric has not met a battle where he hasn't eviscerated our enemies...so, do you think they won't appoint me a regent out of reconciliation's sake? Do you think I won't demand the same punishment for traitors, do you think they would not accede to my demands all the same, because who cares for what befalls a shrunken house of stewards? Are you truly so foolish as to believe that your fates are not already long sealed, whomever this Council chooses?"

"Your Grace," Margaery nodded politely, knowing that her trip had been made for an entirely futile cause, that there was no convincing the sheet of ice before her otherwise.

_You bitch._

_I tried to give you what you wanted._

_By all the Gods...by my life, by my son's life, I'll see you humbled, I'll have this crown torn from your head, we're not finished yet, let it be the last legacy of House Tyrell._

* * *

**Sansa**

"I don't understand."

Her uncles were befuddled. Her uncle Benjen, finally reunited with his wife and children, looking much far stouter, aged, than she'd remembered, though Sansa pitied his plight, having been amongst the earliest victims of Rhaegar and the Spider's treachery. Her uncle Edmure sat similarly confused as well, spitting his ale back into his glass as he spoke.

"Release the Dornish votes now," Benjen added, "I don't see why you won't do that."

Beside him sat Cersei, husband and wife looking as close, even tender, than Sansa had ever remembered seeing of them, on those rare outings to her father's castle.

"You'd lost ground that last round," Edmure saw fit to remind her. "Aye, it shames me to say it, but my own lords are defecting over...it embarrasses me, the Lychesters, the Deddings...even fucking Theomar Smallwood, he can resist a damn siege, but not the honey from that Tyrell bitch's tongue."

"Fucking Robett Glover," Benjen spat angrily. The Lord of Winterfell's contingent of highborns numbered amongst the fowest compared to the representatives of the other more populous kingdoms...so even one defection from the North rankled more than dozens from more southerly lands. Granted, Glover and his son had voted for her uncle Benjen rather than Baelor, an act which the Lord of Winterfell had been quick to disclaim and denounce immediately.

The number of lords and heirs who'd attended this Council numbered over five hundred. The votes tallied two hundred thirty-four for her after the first round had been cast, only seven more than Baelor's number. Ellaria's block of Dornish nobles counted forty-seven for Joffrey, with four hold outs from the Vale strangely determined to prop her cousin Robin, no longer a tiny lad, upon the Iron Throne. Lastly, one senseless old man, a Grandison, had decided to cast his vote for Robert Baratheon, though the Young Stag had been dead for four and twenty years now. An appropriate number, Sansa thought, because it was exactly four and twenty more votes she still needed to claim the Council.

Then the lords argued the next two days, most of Baelor's proponents learned maesters, surely ones who'd been carefully prepared and nurtured by Lady Margaery, whose fervor for the cause of her son by Rhaegar was now being openly marveled by all gathered...exactly what Sansa had intended, in turning away the woman so rudely. The Queen's two uncles were the ones to champion her claim that afternoon...rather ineffectively, they all agreed behind their backs, but again, all part of her plan.

Before the second round even began, old Hugh Grandison died of a stroke, thus losing the long dead Robert Baratheon his sole vote on the Council. But so did Rickard Karstark as well, who drank so much he choked on his own vomit, thus losing her one vote. As Benjen said, two votes deserted her from the Glovers' camp. Sweetrobin's votes split, two to the Queen and two to the Queen's son, but somehow Margaery and Renly had been able to talk another nine men into switching their allegiances from her to Baelor. Adding the Qorgyle's, who voted with the Tyrells to Ellaria's fury, along with the ten Westerlands votes she'd instructed Daenerys into ordering to vote Baelor, the final tallies of the second round left her significantly behind, two hundred ten to Baelor's two hundred forty-four, her son needing only another eleven votes to secure a crown he could not even understand.

"I'll tell Lady Ellaria to switch over Dorne to my side," Sansa conceded. She was sure Baelor wouldn't clinch the magic number on the third tally, yet there was no point in tempting fate. "Daenerys's ten will vote for Baelor again though, that will not change."

Which would leave her still two men shy of keeping her crown. She looked over to Benjen.

"Don't say anything to the Glovers, let them persist in their treason." All her northern family frowned in consternation, from her uncle to Cersei to Mycella. Tommen looked uncertainly to Jeyne, who squeezed his hand in reassurance, because Jeyne was one of the few whom she trusted with her plans, along with Arya, Daenerys and, of course, her beloved husband, whom she'd instructed to do little besides walk around the camp, look pretty, and carry two Valyrian swords by his side to scare the shits out of anyone tempted into joining Margaery.

Minisa slept in Jeyne and Tommen's tent that night, along with her son and rival Baelor, so that she and Edric could make love, both of them thinking eagerly as they fucked towards the results she sought on the third vote.

The morning dawned bright, interrupting several days of cold rain and drizzle. Sansa saw an optimstic hue in the eyes of all around her, friend or foe, a curious excitement bubbling, one way or another, that these great men and occasional women would end the day with a new sovereign they could worship again. Highborns or not, she'd realized, all the greatest lords and ladies of the realm were, like the mobs, like the commoners, the villagers, the beggars of Flea Bottom, sheep to be herded at the end.

She would know. Just as she and Edric dined with their soldiers and drank in the taverns during the war, so she made the effort to, if not dine, then give each lord and house whom she did not know already a few private minutes with the Queen. The time spent was not for the purposes of gaining for herself votes, if anything she made an effort to remain aloof and regal, haughty even, some would say. The Queen questioned them not as her peers, but as her subjects, asking them their histories, their thoughts on the realm, the war, their lands...provoking them if they seemed too friendly, or too guarded. And if she wished to give less credit to Margaery and Renly and their camp, Sansa could believe that it was her own cold demeanor, rather than the eloquence of her enemies, which had cost her so many votes the second round.

But of course the third round would swing in her favor, with all of Dorne placing their chips before the maesters for her claim. Well, nearly. The Ullers joined the Qorgyles in favoring Baelor, though their loss was matched by the Glovers, who'd abandoned their lost cause and returned to her camp. Somehow Margaery had been able to convince another house into declaring for Baelor, the Sunderlands of the Vale and their three votes, Lord and two eldest sons.

"It's over," Cersei said with a smile that night, all her camp in a celebratory mood as they drank the last barrels of Arbor Gold in the Queen's tent. "Your Grace, you've won in war and council, once the Princess commands her lords to switch over to your side. Truly, you will be the chosen one of the Gods."

Sansa raised her glass in her aunt's direction, feeling guilty that she did not trust her enough to confide in her yet what Daenerys knew already. Hopefully Cersei would not be too cross at her when it was all said and done.

"To Sansa Stark," Edmure raised his glass, "the once and future Queen!"

They all drank and laughed, but Edric's face remained stone. "Once and future," he challenged her uncle, rising from his seat. He'd had a lot to drink already, his temperament more perturbed after the wine. "The Queen's _always_ been the Queen, _always_ will be the Queen. Never for one minute has she not been your rightful Queen, from the day she was crowned."

Sansa squeezed at his shoulders, understanding his heightened anxiousness. But she could not fault Edric, however more belligerent he became in her defense, the more wine or ale he'd had. And it was not the Lord of Riverrun who perturbed him, Sansa understood, but what was to come the following day.

"Aye," Edmure said, backing away from her husband with a nervous chuckle, "always the rightful Queen! Hear hear!"

"Thank you uncle," Sansa said politely.

The final count from earlier that day had left her with two hundred and fifty one votes, far exceeding her count from the first round of voting. But her margin was slim, only two more this round than those cast for Baelor...and still she remained five short of securing hers, and more importantly, Minisa's inheritance. All she'd need was Daenerys's ten, but thankfully it would not come to that.

* * *

For the second night in a row she and Edric made love furiously inside their rain splattered tent. Then, they laid in their cot, both of them pretending to sleep, both of them failing, their blood pumped full of fear and anticipation. Yet, she'd awoken first, Baelor seconds afterwards, at the sounds of blood curdling screams and yells from outside. Their bodies still bare beneath her wolf's pelt blanket, rather than dress, Sansa pulled her husband atop of her, then, gripped at his back as he fucked her one last time for good measure.

"I hope you haven't worn yourself out," the Queen said, stroking her husband's cheek as they emerged from their tent. "Tonight will be a good one too, I imagine."

Edric near cackled at her words. "Let's get through today first, and I promise you..._Your Grace_, you'll get your just rewards."

The scene outside was not as chaotic as she'd expected. Only a few tents had caught on fire, and what little resistance given had already been subdued. After so many nights of peaceful deliberating, drinking, and damn near celebration, all of the realm which had survived the war gathered together on the rarest of occasions, it would seem few of the lords saw any need to post more than a couple sentries by their tents, wary at the most of a stray drunken brawler, rather than nearly ten thousand men of the Night's Watch flocking upon the Blackwater.

They watched men being dragged from their tents barely clad, forced upon their knees, whipped at, cursed at, bound, and broken. Few struggled, few fought the strange invaders, and why should they, having been lured into complacency after nearly a fortnight of drinking and friendly fraternizing, celebrating this new peace which had seemingly blessed the land. There was just a sense of shock, from both her allies and her condemned, the most dignified men and women in the realm emerging slackjawed from their tents still clad in their bedclothes.

By the bridge she saw the silhouette of a lone man upon a horse, blocking her view of the first rays of light along the eastern horizon. Tugging Edric's sleeve, they approached the dark form, who dismounted gracefully, despite his advanced years.

"My Lord Hand."

Tywin Lannister bowed but did not kneel. Hidden by his father's shadow before, she saw Tyrion Lannister plopping his feet on the ground, glaring around at the scene before them, mouth agape in horror like most of the others bearing witness to the scene. Yet those whose reactions counted as shock were the lucky ones, for they were not the men lying bound, bruised, and prostrate on the cold, wet dirt.

"Your Grace."

_Did he not tell you to expect this, _she thought, watching Tyrion stumbling about even as his father addressed her,_ did he not believe you capable of stomaching it?_

"I trust you received my list in good order?"

He handed her the sheet of parchment, and Sansa squinted her eyes, recognizing the same names she'd either approved or crossed off the night before.

"Your cousin is busy with the Glovers," Tywin informed her. "As for my son, he has a quite a few intransigent Stormlanders to wrangle with ."

More and more figures emerged from their tents, the blessed, the uncursed, those who had cast their votes on her behalf, yet Sansa did not need to look into their eyes to feel their horror, staring aghast at the sanguine scene before them. Even the villagers stirred, from their huts by the river, and Sansa welcomed them, the more to bear witness to this day, the better.

Her table and chair they'd prepared along the banks of the Blackwater, atop a small bluff just outside the village of Westwater. One chair was placed for her, alone, one sole throne for a Queen at the head of all seven kingdoms, lords and ladies and princes and princesses who would all stand obediently in fealty to their rightful Queen whilst as she sat in judgment during her true coronation, an event which would not be forgotten by a single soul for the rest of time.

Standing upright, the Queen continued to wait, her posture proper, as rigid as any noble knight's, one hand holding at the edge of her makeshift throne. Slowly more and more men gathered, all of them her supporters, Sansa knew, because they walked freely after all was said and done. The last to arrive was Daenerys and the Westerlings, the Princess whispering in her ear that she had the full attentions of the entire realm by now.

"To deny your Queen is treason. To deny your Queen is heresy against the Gods. To cast your vote against your Queen is treason, to seek to usurp her birthright, and that of her chosen heir's, is to spit into the faces of the Gods themselves. There are no claims, except the _sole and rightful_ claim preordained in the heavens, thousands of years before any of us were born.

There is no Council, no _right_ to any gathering of men, not when it contradicts the very wills of the Father, the Warrior, the Smith, the Stranger, the Crone, the Mother, the Maiden, for that holy Council above is the only one which matters in this world.

I would've thought that the bloodiest and most horrible war since the Dance of Dragons would have hammered in this lesson for all of you, but let me repeat my words, so that they may remain unforgotten for the next one thousand years. There is _fealty_, or _death_. Nothing more, nothing less. There is only the will of the Gods, indiscernible from the will of your Queen, the will of House Stark, to whom the Gods have bequeathed the right of rule, the right of the Crown."

Then the Queen sat, the sun rising behind her back, blinding the sight of the first traitors brought before her. The frontest rows of her audience were her prisoners in actuality, bound and knelt forcibly upon the mud, each with at least two or three brothers of the Night's Watch guarding over them, behind them the lucky ones who'd remembered their fealty, though their expressions remained as grim as those who were about to die. A table was set perpendicular to hers, where Arya sat, along with her uncles, Jeyne, the Princess Daenerys, and Cersei and her children. But the Queen sat alone, one hand holding the list handed her by Tywin Lannister, who stood behind her, the brooch of the Hand already pinned to his vest.

Edric began. "Lord Mathis Rowan."

The bearded old man, whom she'd captured at Oxcross and set free at Casterly Rock, was brought before her by two crows, one of them the boy Pyp, she'd recognized from Horn Hill.

"Your Grace, please, I beg you, I won't..."

"Treason is treason, Lord Mathis. I'd thought you'd learnt your lesson at Oxcross. I was wrong, yet the mistake was yours. It will be your last mistake." With one nod, Edric took his head, and the Queen crossed her first name off her list.

So it continued. Edric bloodied his swords with the first dozen or so, then came Ser Balon, then came Aerys Oakheart, then came Ser Sandor, who finished most of the condemned. The Queen had indeed approved every man on the list...nearly each and every one who voted against her. There were exceptions, of course. Daenerys's ten, who'd voted for Baelor on her orders alone, obviously would not die. They'd followed their orders and served their purpose, along with the Dornish lords...to prolong the Council as long as possible, luring her enemies into complacency, before the support of any claim, hers or Baelors, exceeded the votes needed to end the gathering.

Thus she'd drawn out as many of her enemies as possible, who'd think her weak, and losing faith, defect their way into treason...not just ones who would oppose her now, but those as well who could be so tempted in the future. Such were the Qorgyle's and Uller's, who died by Edric's sword. Such were the Glovers, who had their heads carved off by Jaime Lannister, the tips of his golden mane still frosted by the air of the frozen north, the Queen observed, despite the fact that the lords of Deepwood Motte had ultimately switched their votes back on her side, because treason considered then abandoned still measured treason just the same.

The ordeal lasted through mid day. Each man was brought before her, each man heard the final sentence from the Queen, before crows dragged the heads and bodies and tossed them ungracefully into the river. The Queen made sure to check her list before she nodded her sentence, to ensure that no mistakes were made, that none of the condemned had been mistakenly taken, or mistaken for another. Nearly every man who'd cast their vote for Baelor on the third and last ballot would lose their heads, though the Queen did make her exceptions, based on the personal impressions each lord or lady made upon her.

Lady Anya Waynwood she spared, because the woman was old, and Sansa could tell she'd been pressured into her vote by her sons, whom she chose to spare the younger, execute the elder. Same too with the likes of the young Renton Mullendore, who'd voted for Baelor only because his father the Lord Martyn had pressured him into doing so. The son lived, the father lost his head, though Sansa did not need to remind Tywin that the family would bear watching in the years to come. There were even the rare likes of Lord Morgan Wylde who, though he'd cast his vote for Baelor, after meeting with the man Sansa could be confident that not only did he cast his vote only out of loyalty to Renly Baratheon and his purposefully absent puppet, the Lady Shireen, but of whom she'd heard these last nights his kindness and gentleness towards his wife and daughters and the smallfolk who'd lived on his land, so she'd spared in one of the fewest exceptions to her wrath.

But aside from the men she'd personally pardoned, her chosen condemned worked as a team to color the Blackwater red that day, nearly each and every man who'd voted or even considered voting against her rightful claim. Somewhere in the rear of the audience she'd spied Jon earlier in the morning, though he'd disappeared far before the last of the Queen's purge was complete. Tyrion had disappeared too, though Sansa thought he'd stumbled away.

Some of the lords begged for mercy, for themselves, for their sons. Others cursed her or, more often than not, cursed Lord Tywin behind her, or Edric, who'd found a chair next to her by now, as if she were inherently less capable of honor than the men who did her bidding for her. Behind the rows of crows standing guard screamed the crying and pleadings of women and children, beseeching her with unworldly desperation to spare their husbands, their fathers, and Sansa thought her ears may bleed, listening to their wailing, swearing to remember the grim sound, to remember the full weight and price of her lasting triumph.

The last condemned man standing was Orton Merryweather. Like each and every lord she'd spared after the Battle of Oxcross, he'd persisted in resisting her despite the mercy she'd shown him. It was Ser Jaime's turn to take this last head, two more brothers of the Night's Watch tossed the remains into the river, after which it felt like the realm had hushed into a terrible silence, mortified at what their Queen may still demand from her blood strewn court.

The Queen stood, and step by careful step walked around the table until her boots stood directly atop the darkest patch of dirt, where the blood of well over two hundred lords dripped deeper and deeper into the dry soil. First she looked at Edric, then Tywin, then circled her head to address all who'd been lucky enough to survive the Council of the Wolf.

"Blood has been shed," she proclaimed, "the blood of the guilty. Far down this river, blood has been shed of the innocent, too much innocent blood." The Red Keep. Her home, the castle she'd grown up in...the same castle which saw the deaths of her daughter Lyanna, of Trystane and Bran and Rickon, where they'd brought her mother's body after the mob had had their way with her. "A new castle shall be built upon this ground, sprung from the seeds planted by the blood of traitors spilled today, a new city, a new capital for the realm, a great city by the name of Trystanen. Let every man, woman, and child leave this sacred site then, fully aware of the lesson learned this day..._that fealty is not a choice_...that what acts they'd choose in life, so the Gods will find and deliver their justice through the hands of _their chosen_ champion upon the Iron Throne."

Soldiers who'd fought battle after battle, sworn brothers of the Watch who'd known nothing but winter for most of their lives, the hardest and most terrible of men, yet their eyes trembled when she met theirs, as if she could wield a sword far deadlier than the likes of Barristan the Bold. _Or the Smiling Knight, more appropriately._

"The Night's Watch is an ancient and hallowed tradition. But its time has passed. The greatest threats to the Seven Kingdoms come not from outside its walls, but from within. Henceforth, the Watch of the Wolf will continue to protect and shield the realm, within the Seven Kingdoms. Their duty will not be merely protecting the highborns, lords and princesses, but the weak, the powerless, the feeble. Those of you who've survived this day do so purely by the divine grace of your Queen. Remember the lessons of this Council on the Blackwater, I beg of you, for your sake, and that of your families, those you love. For those who suffered this day, remember your suffering, so that you do not repeat the mistakes of your fathers, your sons, your brothers, because a lesson repeated is sure to be far harsher. And for those who could be tempted into forgetting this day...the Wolf is watching, the Wolf has eyes from Winterfell to the Arbor, from Gulltown to Kayce. Justice will favor not the rich, nor the wellborn, nor the powerful or strong, but the just, and the right, and the faithful."

When she moved from the bloody spot, soon to be the cornerstone of her new castle, they all flinched back and away from her. When she walked forward, away from the river, tracking blood through previously unsullied dirt and grass, they parted for her without even need for guards or whitecloaks, those who weren't completely dumbstruck knelt, as if she would remember their faces or names through the blur of her victory. The once rowdy and jolly encampment seemed as eerie and still as the ruins of Old Valyria, nearly half the tents belonging to dead men, dead houses.

The tent she sought stood guarded by northmen, the banners of the Merman gripped in the hands of two sentries who'd been fortunate enough not to have witnessed the slaughter. Inside sat a mother, so intent at nursing her young son that she did not even hear of her entrance or approach at first.

"Sansa!" Margaery Tyrell startled, as if seeing a ghost. _Ironic_.

"Finish," she ordered, so her brother's betrothed did, nervously gripping her child for several more minutes until the infant was satisfied. Covering herself up, she laid the child into a small crib, before turning and facing her executioner.

"Sansa, I _swear_ to you..." Margaery looked around the tent forlornly, knowing she was damned regardless of what poetry the woman had left in her lungs. "He's not Viserys's child."

"He's not?" Be it that the damned woman could still surprise her.

"No," she replied, shaking her head furiously and sitting back down upon her cot, burying her face into her palms. "I...I needed an heir. Viserys needed an heir. He was becoming impatient, and I...he's barren, Your Grace, I'm sure of it. So I...there's this boy in the armory, he's got the same color hair as I, same eyes. After the maesters told me they were sure...we gave him a bag of gold, sent him on a ship to Pentos. I swear it Sansa, maybe he's still there across the Narrow Sea, we'll bring him back, he can swear to this, I beg of you, please believe me!"

She did. Strangely, she believed Margaery on this matter.

"The realm believes Aegon is the son of Viserys."

"I'll tell everyone the truth, I promise, I'll ride to every village and speak to every soul until the truth is known..."

She would keep pleading and begging, until her Queen died of old age, so Sansa interrupted her. "Your father will die. I've ordered the remaining prisoners brought from Casterly Rock. Lord Tyrell and Viserys will join them. They, Randyll Tarly, Jonos Bracken, and Walder Frey, will be all impaled outside the Walls of King's Landing. They will live for some time, I'm assured. So as to reduce the length of their suffering, their bodies will be covered with honey and sugar on the second morning."

_Mayhaps a lemoncake too, I'll set it atop Viserys's nose myself._

Margaery gasped at her in sheer horror. As terrible a fate as she'd surely imagined for herself, her father also, this seemed to exceed even her most dreaded or demented expectations.

Then she reacted. The woman was quick, she'd give her that, impossibly composed to the very last.

"Then I beg of you, Sansa...Your Grace, let me join them. Take me, let my screams, my suffering save my son's life, if my father's punishment is not enough."

"You're begging me." She felt a smirk crawl upon her lips, like a spider creeping.

"I am," Margaery panted. "You won, Your Grace. You've won _everything_. I have _nothing_ now, I've no choice left me but to beg, to plead..."

A faint wail from her son interrupted her, and both women turned their heads at the crib. The young child Aegon Targaryen...or Waters, or Flowers, Sansa wondered which, cried weakly for a few moments, before falling back asleep.

"Don't beg," the Queen ordered. "Pray."

Her brother's beautiful betrothed bride to be frowned her brows at her in consternation. "Pray?"

"_Pray_," Sansa said, affirming her own word. "To _me_. To the Seven incarnate, who walks this realm, my eyes their eyes, my voice their voice."

It would seem the woman's grovelling had its limits, sheer insanity being one of them, what was left of her dignity hesitant towards committing an actual act of heresy. Unfazed by Margaery's hesitation, the Queen took another step forward, so her knees bumped against hers, her breasts almost touching at the Tyrell woman's face.

"Am I not the Warrior incarnate, who defeated the thousands of soldiers you sent against me? Am I not the Father, who cast judgment upon all the sinners of the realm this day? Am I not the Mother, whose mercy you were so desperate for just now?"

From inside her robes, she withdrew a small dagger, and pointed it at Margaery's shaking neck.

"Am I not the Stranger herself, who holds the power of life and death over you, over your son? Was I not the _only_ God who walked the known world today, who decided life or death, mercy or justice, for an entire continent? _Am I not your God, _here, now, where I stand, where you sit, _am I not all the Gods and Goddesses and Strangers in this world to you_, because there is _nothing_ that matters to you, except for what you pray, and what _I decide?_"

Her jaw moved weakly, without making a noise. Then, deftly avoiding the tip her dagger, she fell off her cot and prostrated herself upon two knees before her Queen, before all her Gods and Goddesses.

"Blessed be the Seven," came the weak and frightened whisper, Margaery's dark brown eyes staring frightfully into her own, "blessed be the Mother, I pray for her forgiveness, for her mercy. I am weak, I am cruel, I am impure, I have sinned. I pray for her mercy, for my son's life...for mine..."

"Is that all?"

When Margaery opened her eyes and looked back up, she saw the dagger nestled near the dip between her two eyes.

"I..."

"_Robb_. You killed him."

"I...I _loved_ him Sansa. I loved your brother, I would've never..."

"You killed him," the Queen repeated, igorning her protests. "Or do you deny your sin before your God?"

"I killed Robb," Margaery admitted, weeping ever more furiously, enough so that Sansa wondered whether there had been a grain of truth to her words, of her love for her brother. "I killed him...I coveted him...they told me, it was Lord Baelish, he said Prince Robb loved me...but I was stupid, I was foolish, I did not know then that I was unworthy of him. Please forgive Sans...blessed Mother, blessed Seven, please forgive my son for sins committed years before he was born..."

"You will live." The older woman looked up at her, eyes cast in shock, then horror. _She probably thinks I mean to kill Aegon in front of her eyes._ "You will live out the rest of your days on Bear Island. You may even marry again, bear children again, so long as you seek your Queen's permission first."

The beautiful countenance below her expressed little relief at the pronouncement. "Ae...Aegon," Margaery asked, trembling still.

"Will never be known by that name again," Sansa explained. "Theon Greyjoy claimed a crown which had no right to exist. He will be dead soon, if not already. After that, there will be not one living soul upon the island where my father and brother were betrayed and killed. All of Pyke will be a wasteland, more barren than Old Valyria."

Her ships would have already destroyed what remained of the Greyjoy fleet well before the Iron Born could return to where they had been docked upon the Sunset Sea. Five thousand of her victorious army from Oxcross had remained in the Westerlands, for the sole purpose of one last ambush to finish the war. The islanders had fought well for her cause, and Sansa hoped that most would have the good sense to surrender. If so, then they'd join the rest of Pyke, every last man, woman and child to be carried east upon a fleet of ships, then settled into the towns and villages of the North. The Iron Born would live, their blood would survive, that was her mercy, but they would do so surrounded by a kingdom who'd never forgotten what fate had befell their beloved King Eddard, and at whose hands.

"He had quite a few bastard sons," she continued. "They'll be sent on a ship across the Narrow Sea. Princess Daenerys still maintains some friends in the Free City of Braavos. I'm assured that there are families there, well off ones, mothers and fathers, princes even, whose seed are barren, who cannot bear their own children. Their names will be forgotten, their inheritances...but they will live comfortable lives, inside manors grander than those on Bear Island...or that's what I'd believe, were I you."

The woman who would have been Robb Stark's Queen dipped her head. In relief? In grief, in every emotion possible to a woman, a mother, Sansa could imagine, she could even sympathize. But the judgment had been pronounced, Margaery Tyrell was no longer her problem, so the Queen departed this last ghost of her bloody past, for she only had the rest of the realm to deal with, for the rest of her life.


	39. The Queen Who Returned Into the Cold: I

**Edric**

All his life Edric Dayne, Lord of Starfall and now the Prince of the Throne, had know little but war, and death, pain and suffering. He thought he knew fear, in the eyes of the men he'd faced on the battlefield, seconds before plunging his giant Valyrian blade into wherever his arms could reach upon their bodies. Ice, and a plainer sword before that, never Dawn. Now he had Heartsbane too. Two Valyrian swords, as if he were some ancient dragonlord or potentate of a lost lost empire, as if Sansa knew more than he what he'd given up for her, so she'd make war upon every house still known to have an ancient and sacrosanct sword until the blades they'd conquered could fill up all the room which had once held Dawn, a room of glistening blades in exchange for a throne of dead swords.

But of what remained of the day after the Queen's Great Council of Trystanen, Edric Dayne understood true fear from the echoes of trembling whispers behind petrified glares. Because the fear he'd once known, that of soldiers and warriors seemed vapid and insignificant set next to the fear of those who'd thought their lives secure, all their riches, their legacies...only to have their most treasured and sacred illusions ripped away from their eyes like a wolf or lion leaping to tear off the arm of a hunter with his back turned towards those who'd prey upon him.

Lords like Mathis Rowan, whom he'd faced on the battlefield, or Quentyn Qorgyle, who fought by his side on the battlefield, though they'd been condemned, they nevertheless died like soldiers, disappointed, betrayed, agonized...yet the men for whom the war had been a much more recent memory died with far better dignity than old or pampered lords for whom their greatest fear until their demise was drinking of too much wine at a feast, only to find themselves choking alone that night alone, with no one near to save him.

But the fear etched on the faces of those who'd survived, well that was a color of a different intensity altogether, every man and woman encamped on the grounds of what would one day be the great city of Trystanen, who'd kept their lives, their wealth, their families and loved ones, yet feared to dare even breath the wrong way in the new world they'd survived to see. There was the terrifying fear hidden in the heart too, of a Queen and lover and wife, who weakly crawled into their cot later that night, where he'd awaited her in eager anticipation...who walked inside their private quarters regal and poised, carrying within her small frame every ounce of power and fortitude held by the likes of a man like Aegon the Conqueror, men whose names were whispered more as legend than as living men who breathed, who could hurt and bleed.

Then Balon Swann swept the tent flaps closed, and Edric watched in horror his wife collapse onto her knees. Instantly he rushed from the bed to catch her before she could hurt herself. At first he thought she'd been struck, or stabbed, or pierced by an arrow, his hands desperately grasping against her back, feeling for the fatal wound, the blood, the moist linens his fingers so feared to find.

But her cries came not from pain, but from grief, from crying. He held her for some time, both Queen and Prince on their knees before each other, and Edric thought that Sansa was just as shocked by her reaction as he was.

"It's over," he whispered into her ear. "It's over, it's done."

"It's not," Sansa hacked out of her throat. "It can't not happen...we can't change the past, it's...it's history now. It's not over, it'll never be over."

It was true. He'd like to counter, he'd like to argue otherwise, but they both knew the truth, and there was nothing he could to do about their lives, the path they'd had to travel to survive, to win. So they lay together that night, and she cried himself to sleep in his arms, like the nights when they had first met.

"I have to be strong," she'd whispered late into the night. "For you, for Minisa..."

_No, you're wrong,_ the words rang through his mind before he sank into a fitful sleep._ I'm the one who has to be strong for us. To be a sword, a blade, a weapon, nothing more..._

"Lord Edric?"

A voice called to him the next morning, shivering as he left his tent to fetch a bucket of water from a nearby stream. He turned to stare down into the green eyes of a small man whom he'd only glanced upon the previous day, on the outer edges of the crowd assembled for the mummers' dance of blood.

"I'll presume you're Lord Tyrion."

"I suppose you've plenty to drink last night?"

The dwarf was the one whose eyes lay haggard before him. His voice was raspy, ragged, as if he'd spent the past day screaming his small lungs out, though if he did, it must have been out of reach from Edric's ears. His tiny hands clenched a small canteen, similar to Thoros's most treasured prize, his skin dry, eyes red and worn.

_Gods, do I look as bad as him?_

"I haven't, actually." It was the truth. "Not a drop."

The dwarf blinked twice, and Edric thought that his answer disappointed the man in some strange way. _He drinks even more than Sansa. Does he think I'm a lesser person, that I don't need the taste of wine to satisfy my demons?_

"I think the Queen will release you from your vows sooner or later," Edric said, trying to find a firm ground upon which to speak to this man, whose mind Sansa had spoken of admiringly so many times. "Though I might wait a bit first, were I you, she has grand plans for the Watch."

"Yes, I can imagine," the dwarf replied acerbically, "butchering Andals instead of wildlings, unprecedented for sure."

_Does he think himself safe from treason, because he served her once passably once?_

"Butchering," he replied, feeling the heat rise within his heart. As Tyrion took out his small container, Edric wondered whether the small man's stomach had held anything other than wine this morning, or the day before. "The Watch of the Wolf is to protect the people, the smallfolk. To watch the lords..."

"For more treasons? For more blood to sanctify the grounds of her new castle?"

"If it's necessary," he replied calmly, careful not to bite upon the small man's lure. His Queen's former Master of Law had obviously been struck stunned, dumb, and drunk by the massacres the day before, like most of all the lords, even some of the ones who'd supported them, fought by his side, such as Roland Crakehall. Though there were also the ones who'd been wronged, same as the Queen, the Oakhearts, the Swanns, the Westerlings, many of the northern houses like the Manderly's or Cerwyns, or fierce young warriors the likes of Bryce Caron, who'd together rejoiced and toasted at the spilled blood of their vanquished enemies. Edric didn't know why he would have expected to count Tyrion Lannister amongst the latter, he had to remind himself that, despite all that Sansa had told him about the Half Man, Prince Tywin's youngest son was naught but a stranger to him. To Sansa even, because the girl he'd met in the Kingswood on the verge of losing her head at the hands of her traitors was not the same as the same woman he'd married now, much less the one Tyrion last spoke to before his exile and her imprisonment.

"They call you many things here, I've heard, the boy who's never lost a battle. I wondered, which would he prefer...the Young Star, the Fierce Star, the Star who moves like lightning...the Dark Star, The Star who killed the Dawn..."

Edric's laugh interrupted him. "Do you think I care, Lord Tyrion? You're right, I've never lost a battle. I don't intend to. I threw Dawn into the ocean. I hope it stays there, I hope the waves never bring it back to shore. If it does, I'll throw it away again, except the next time I'll tie a stone against the hilt. I don't care what the lords think of me, Lord Tyrion, that's Sansa's job to handle them, and your father's. All I care about is that they wonder and think to themselves at night...what it's like to stand on the side of the battlefield opposite from me, what it was like for a man like Randyll Tarly, who tried his best, and his best wasn't enough to beat me, and because of that, he'll die horribly. That's what I want, for them to think of me, and not sleep, not until they've prayed and recited repeatedly their vows of fealty to their rightful Queen."

"I see."

Though he concealed it quickly, Edric saw the fearful, perhaps even hateful, gleam in the little man's eye. _He thinks me a monster._

_Good. Let him remember that._

"Do you though, _do you_ see? Were you the one who held her last night, a Queen who cries herself to sleep more than any woman ever ought to? No, you weren't, because it's your fault. If you had done your job, then all these lords you mourn for with wine would still be living, having never been given cause to rebel in the first place. But you let the likes of Littlefinger outsmart you, didn't you, you let the likes of Kevan Lannister and Mace Tyrell and Tarly out maneuver you, that's why she cries at night. But guess what, they're dead now, they're defeated, because of me and her...because of people with iron wills like the Princess Daenerys and Ellaria Sand, women yet their hearts are far more firm and unwavering than most men's. The realm's at peace because the Queen and your father have the wisdom, they have _the balls_ to do what you never dared. You don't get to judge. You had your chance. You failed. Your time is passed. It's our turn now."

When his felt the tirade dying inside his chest, his breath calming, his muscles and shoulders relaxing once more, he saw that it was not his eyes which held Tyrion's, but that the smaller man's gaze had now fallen upon his sword. Heartsbane, the Valyrian blade which hung at his left.

_That's right. I'm dangerous. I'm a very dangerous man, don't you ever forget that._

_She cries, because we've killed so many people for her. Yet every time she cries, I want to kill all the more._

"You're right," Tyrion conceded, returning his ire with sadness in turn. "I did fail, we all failed her, from her grandfather, to Jon Arryn, down the line. Yet...do you recall what started this dynasty of the Wolf? No, you don't, do you, you weren't alive, neither was she. I was but a child myself, but I remember all the same, the day they told me my brother and father were being sent to Castle Black by the newly crowned King Eddard the Just. He'd failed too, hadn't he, the great Tywin Lannister, who'd knighted a king before deposing him, who fought and triumphed in wars near and far, yet by one stroke, one miscalculation one mistake, he'd fallen, his time had passed him by, and so he rode north, not by choice, already an ancient relic by the time he'd reached Moat Cailin.

Except, he's back, isn't he? My father's time has come again. I've lived long enough to see it, you haven't, because for all your victories, and they're great victories, I won't deny you that, die today and your name will always be remembered...you're still a boy. You haven't seen what I've seen, because, well, that'd be impossible, no God could ever grant a man the wisdom beyond that of his years actually lived. And what you don't see, what you can't see, you can read about it, you can hear old, failed men like me rattle your ears about it, but you'll never truly understand, can you? Not until you've actually lived it."

A small ache grew from a seed inside his head. Was this his enemy's trap, was Tyrion Lannister determined to engage him in a battle of sanctimonious lectures? It was too early for that shit, and words had never been his weapon of choice.

"Seems Lord Tywin's seen more than you," he responded, turning his shoulder to indicate that he did not plan to give the small man the benefit of the last word, "and seems he's made his choice as to whom this world to belong to."

Yet there was something pitiful to the dwarf whose shadow he could not escape on the side of his eyes, standing where Edric had left him, hand hung in the air still clutching his wine.

"If I were you," he turned, surprising him, "I'd stay in the Queen's Watch for a bit longer. See with your own eyes the world to come, before you judge it."

* * *

**Tyrion**

"What happened?"

The son of Rhaegar Targaryen and his first Stark bride shrugged as he left his tent. It was not exactly late in the morning, and Jon Stark had never been known as a late riser, nor was any sworn brother of what had been the Night's Watch, not under Tywin Lannister's iron grip in Castle Black at least, but Tyrion supposed every man of the Watch could allow himself more indulgences after helping to carry out the most unprecedented massacre soon to be recorded into the scrolls of the Citadel.

"Seems we just won the war for our Queen."

"Seems the war was _already_ won," Tyrion muttered, his mind still reeling from his exchange with Edric Dayne..._that's the kind of man whom she'd have ruling this country with her?_ "The Council too, from what I heard, she could have had it all, without the massacre. Except none of it was anything more than just a pretense for her massacre."

Did he sound bitter? He was bitter. Was it dangerous for a man to express bitterness for his Queen, in this first day of her new reign? Jon looked flustered, uneasy at the past day's events too, but how much could he truly trust the Queen's own cousin? Jon was his sworn brother, there was that, a friend also, but what value remained in the words to their vows, after his father made the choice to leap back into the murky pool of the Seven Kingdoms, and bring all the Night's Watch with him breaking their sacred bonds by the thousands.

"Lord Tywin told me to lead the raid on the Tyrell tent," Jon muttered, eyeing jealously the precious wine inside Tyrion's hands. "One of their sentries seemed half asleep, he surrendered easily. The other was a boy, he looked younger than me, I think. I fought him, I wanted to just wound him, but he wouldn't let me, and I had to plunge my sword in his heart. They'd taken Lady Margaery by then, and her father."

"She's a pretty girl, isn't she?"

"Robb had good taste," Jon muttered, forcing a smile, though his eyes remained cast against the dirt by his shoes. "She was running for a trunk in the corner of the tent when Pyp grabbed her. Seems she had a vial of some...sort of poison in there, they say. I wonder what was the crueler thing to do...when I plunged my sword into the heart of a young soldier...or when Pyp took her before she could drink the poison."

"The Queen pardoned her, so that's something." He saw Jon's eyes flick upwards, that this was news to him, welcome at that. "Mace Tyrell...I wouldn't argue that he does not deserve to die, he deserves it more than most of the ones yesterday...but...the way she'll have it...he wasn't the one who struck his sword through your cousins Bran and Rickon, you know. Or Trystane. But that's not how our Queen sees it."

He'd been surprised by Margaery's pardon as well, he'd expected both mother and son to die writhing in agony next to the woman's husband and father.

"I liked Trystane," Jon remarked, sadness flowing through his dark grey eyes.

"I barely knew him."

"I wouldn't have called him a brother that day, when I rode north and he rode south. But he was a good young lad. Sometimes I wonder, whether he could have just come with me to Castle Black instead."

"Aye, young," Tyrion answered, shaking his head. "All the foolishness of youth, yet entrusted with the responsibilities of a man."

_Jaime was better prepared when he first donned his white cloak._

_Except, would he have been, had Cersei been wed to the Mad King, just how long could fire scare away uncontrollable lust?_

"I couldn't wait for this day," Jon continued, and Tyrion wondered whether he'd even heard his last remarks, useless as they'd been. "When I took the black...when I heard about how Sansa had been betrayed, forced to marry my fath...Rhaegar...I dreamed about how I could ride south to King's Landing, an army of one, and slaughter with my own hands each and every traitor to our family."

"Doesn't feel as good as you'd imagined, does it?"

"No," the young man confessed starkly. "Rhaegar's already dead. Connington, the Spider, Doran Martell...I'd like to take Viserys's head myself, beat him 'till he's unrecognizable. But everyone else, I watched them die...yet...I feel like many of them didn't even...even understand _why_ they were dying. They weren't the ones who harmed our family."

"No, they weren't." Yet, was the boy not entirely correct in the assumption? The mass killings of the lords would not have been the course Tyrion would have chosen...but to believe their hands clean altogether, well that was another matter indeed, and part of him could not fault Sansa in believing that every man who held even the slightest hesitation at bending the knee for a girl on the Iron Throne would pose an inherent threat to her reign and her life, for the rest of her life, if not now, then another Randyll Tarly in waiting, ready to pounce the next time the likes of a Rhaegar or a High Sparrow came calling along. "Have you spoken to her yet?"

"Briefly. Arya too, I swear she helped carry me back to my tent last night. But Sansa...I guess she's mighty busy with everyone who didn't die. She was in that tent for quite awhile, Her Grace, Prince Edric, Lord Tywin, and the Lady of..., I mean..."

"The Lady of Casterly Rock, do you mean?" Jon shrugged uncomfortably. Strange that the idea of exile would still bother him, when it involved men other than himself. "Don't cry for me Jon. My father's the Prince of Dragonstone. Jaime too one day. I'm not sure if that actually makes me a Prince or not, or whether I'd want such a lofty title..."

"Come back with me to Castle Black then, if you don't want titles." Jon said the words in jest, but deep down they both knew the idea was not entirely unfounded. He'd asked his father about the future of the Night's Watch, the thousands year old order and the thousands year old Wall they'd maintained.

_"It'll remain," the realm's newest Hand had answered. "The wildings won't take care of themselves, would they? The Queen's told me to leave whomever I wish up at Castle Black..."_

The way his father spoke, it was as if his decades as Lord Commander of the revered institution had been nothing more than a vague dream, or nightmare. Most of his so called sworn brothers seemed mighty thrilled by the prospect of returning to the lands of summer, to serve as champions of the smallfolk, to lord over the lords who'd cast them away to begin with.

_But not Jon Stark. Because no one told him to take the black, except his own conscience._

"I'm tempted, actually." He chest broke out in a mirthful cough, or laugh, or whatever they were now. "To think five years ago, I would consider a lifetime on the Wall as anything except the most dreadful prospect I could imagine..."

He'd met the Targaryen Princess briefly. Daenerys had been cordial, she'd even invited him to Casterly Rock, told him he'd always have an open room in what had once been his castle.

_"If you want the title, perhaps Her Grace can name you the Warden of the West..."_

But what the Princess left _unsaid_ was clear enough, his lordship would never be wrested away from her son so as to be returned to him. _Ironic_, he thought, and proper in a bitterly appropriate way. Jaime would inherit Dragonstone. Cersei's children would inherit Winterfell, Highgarden, and the Hightower. Jaime's children too, at least in the Reach. And so it would be, the boy who was born with no holdings or land to his name would likely die the same way. Tyrion supposed he could ask the Queen for a humble castle, plenty of spoils still remained in the Crownlands, and he didn't doubt that Sansa would be happy to give him one she hadn't already bestowed to her family or toy soldier already, but for some reason, he didn't want to ask. He didn't even want to hear her offer him anything on her own accord because, for some reason, he did not ever want to feel indebted to this particular woman ever again, this Queen he'd once served so faithfully.

"Don't think she needs us down here, really," Jon said almost wistfully, eyes following the small circle of lords, ladies, and armed men and women who followed wherever the Queen's procession traced through the dwindling camp. "I'd stay for Arya, but she'll be busy enough. She'll visit me up north, Sansa will too, she thinks. But Lord Tywin can do far more for her than I ever could. Prince Edric after him."

"No, I don't think so," Tyrion said, returning Jon's perplexed look with a skeptical eye instead. "I spoke to him just now, while you were still sleeping."

"You don't like him?" Concern matted his dark eyebrows, the young man still protective of a younger cousin who no longer needed protecting. Not from him, anyway.

"I can't say I dislike him. Or like him either. I just can't say I'm all that impressed."

Jon scoffed, shaking his head, marveling in disbelief at his words. "He's the best soldier this land's seen since, who, Daeron the Young Dragon, the Conquerer himself, yet he's still not enough to impress the Lord Tyrion?"

_Oh Jon. You're a good man. You're clever enough. But you're still so young and naive, in the most Northern of ways._

"Perhaps he'll win every battle he fights for his Queen, for the rest of his life. Or maybe one day he'll experience his first bout of bad luck in war, plenty of that to go around even for the best. But my father's the kind of man who'll see to it that Queen Sansa doesn't have to deal with wars and rebellions in the first place, not the likes of Edric Dayne." Walking towards Jon, he handed him his canteen, and the boy drank it thoughtfully while Tyrion patted his arm. "How do I put this in a way for you Northerners...he's, he's like her direwolf pup, an attack dog with two Valyrian swords. But Hand to his Queen, my father's successor? I think not, and I think our Queen knows that too."

"Don't think your brother is, either," Jon said with a laugh. "Think you'll be the one then?"

"I wonder." Jon said it as a joke, he'd replied as a joke, but he couldn't help himself from wondering.

* * *

**Sansa**

It wasn't that she'd waited to make him suffer, though lingering in uncertainty through one day and night could help her case. But yesterday had already sapped her of all she had, even before she went to confront Margaery, dispense her her ration of the Mother's mercy. Then she had to change faces again and again, because the dead were dead, and it was the living she had to continue assuring. Her own uncle Benjen along with the Umbers, that Castle Black would remain manned, though by a much smaller contingent, and if he were unsure, then Jon would remain north to command what remained of the thousands years old order.

_"They won't be happy. Wildlings start crossing the Wall, ranging on the wrong side of things...this won't be the last we hear from the Umbers...Your Grace."_

_"Do you think they're capable of raising their banners in rebellion, uncle? Or you? Need I remind you to remind them of what befell the traitors here in Trystanen?"_

Though the lands of her father would bear watching for her. It wasn't just the threat that the lords of the North could turn against her, but the people too, if the wildling threat ever became one more tangible in their minds. She would need to make frequent visits, shows of prayer and reverence beside the Godswood trees of every village, what after all the posing she did with faiths of Southrons. It wouldn't be easy, it would be yet another constant war she'd need to fight for the rest of her life, but so what? Better time spend in her realm than inside the castle where her brothers died, where Trystane died. So long as Edric remained by her side, then let her people be the beneficiaries for a Queen who'd forgo the comforts of an accursed capital she'd wish to fade as old Valyria sooner than later.

"Your Grace? Or which of the gods are you impersonating today?"

Renly Baratheon's tent was lightly guarded. She gave Brienne the task, as a gesture of goodwill, so as to reassure the woman her lack of ill intentions for her old friend. So the Queen smiled to, at her old friend, the man whom she'd once called an uncle, who served her, who served her father, who'd failed him.

"Let me guess," she said. She brought wine. Brienne had given her a curious glance, perhaps hopeful through the pitcher she carried that the Queen had come to meet the traitor in peace. Sansa poured herself a glass, then one for Renly, who drank it as if she'd been starving him, which she hadn't been. "You're about to say,_ 'what happened to the innocent little girl I remember, the girl who cried her way through each and every council meeting.'_"

The youngest of Steffon Baratheon's sons raised his glass at her, to acknowledge her mocking tone. "Guess it's either the innocence that dies, or the girl."

"Then you'd say you'd wish it didn't have to be that way, but..."

Trailing off, she took a sip of wine, and thought about Loras Tyrell, how so much of her world, and thus, her realm, had been shaped by a man who'd died as ingloriously as a common hedge knight in battle. The beautiful Ser Loras, her first love, and standing across from her was Renly Baratheon, Loras's last and lasting love, that'd been made obvious enough. Edric too, his life had been shaped by a man he'd never spoken a word to. Where would he be had Loras never been betrothed to Talla Tarly, or had the girl chosen her husband over the Knight of Flowers. Would he have remained steadfast by her side, or would her beloved husband, the father of her child, her heir, been the one to deliver her deathblow on the behalf of Randyll Tarly.

"Is that what you're going to tell me," Renly asked, and Sansa saw that he had not drank more with her, after his first and impulsive gulp. "That's the world you're building, where innocent little girls may remain freely innocent? At what price?"

"Was yesterday's price not worth it," she challenged him, daring him to further oppose her, though hearing her imperious tone he shrank backwards from her. "Two hundred or so men dead, men who chose their course, chose their fate, rather than thousands or more on the field of battle, women and children and the infirm who'd have to starve while we besieged King's Landing, all of whom with no choice in the matter. Who deserves to die, Lord Renly? A lord who walks his path willingly, or the farmer he forces to fight on behalf of a treasonous cause, for spoils which go to the lord rather than the farmer?"

"Everyone gets a choice, don't they? Except for the lords, the highborn, because, if I remember from your bloody proclamation yesterday, fealty isn't a choice. So you'd believe yourself justified in freeing one set of people, only to enslave another."

"_Enslave_? Hardly, you don't really believe that, do you? Would you have a great war every time a king or queen dies and the throne is left vacant, just so the highborn can be more _free_? Or a rebellion every year, when this lord or that believes their houses spurned in a marriage, or decides he wants to keep his gold rather than pay the Crown their taxes?"

"Your father, he was chosen by the lords," he said sullenly, both his hands pressed against his legs. "You were too, in some respect. You're right, dynasties and lineages matter, else neither you nor I would be who we are. Except, men and women didn't rebel every time a king died, the blood of the dragon held the realm together for many hundred years. The lords who chose to crown you did so in defiance of thousands of years of Andal tradition...the lords who chose your father only ignored a few hundred years worth of Westerosi ones...but I suppose you didn't come here to argue laws of succession with me, or political philosophies."

_The man has a death wish,_ Sansa realized, as Renly looked away from her, the wine still sitting listless in his hands. _He senses that I want to pardon him, else he'd already be dead or bound like Mace Tyrell, yet he's determined to push me the other way._

"You'd be surprised." Finishing her wine, she stood, walking over towards where Renly sat, until she loomed over the older man. "I've come to offer you a choice."

"Oh," Renly remarked, and Sansa could not tell whether he was smirking or sneering.

"You can join the likes of Tarly and Viserys and die horribly outside the walls of King's Landing. Or you serve the Crown as its High Septon."

There was power in fear, in her inherent _right_ to threaten her subjects into submission. Yet there was power too in her ability to evoke surprise as she'd just done in the face of her onetime ally, and now her enemy. To summon gratitude, if the man was capable of such a thing.

"High Septon?"

_Have you gone mad_, his eyes all but said, by not openly questioning her sanity it would seem that Renly still possessed a semblance of will in not wanting to die beside the likes of Viserys Targaryen.

"The Faith needs to be rebuilt, after all that Rhaegar and the Sparrows came so close to destroying it entirely."

"And you think I'm the one to do it?" Finally, he returned his attention to his forgotten glass of wine, finishing it in one last inhalation.

"The Crown believes so. You understand the hypocrisy of the Faith better than most men, how the wicked have used the Seven Pointed Star for their own purposes since the coming of the Andals. Build a new Faith for me, for yourself, one that helps the people, feeds the hungry, and yes, protects little girls...surely they're more deserving of your pity than the likes of Willas Tyrell and Orton Merryweather."

With each word Renly appeared more and more uneasy inside his skin. It was as if he _wanted_ to believe her the living incarnation of the likes of Maegor the Cruel by now, and any evidence to the contrary discomforted him to the point of nausea. Perhaps it became easier for him to think of her that way, once he'd made the decision to turn against her. She could almost sympathize with the man, he must had been bracing for the worst ever since Oxcross, just as she had been on that awful day when she'd first learned of carrying a child which could have been Trystane's.

"I thought it was the Crown who spoke for the Gods."

"Not every Crown. Not the likes of Aerys or Maegor. But you're right, this crown," she touched the center of her forehead with the side of her finger, "has been uniquely blessed by the Gods, to have been tasked the heaviest burden of rebuilding the Faith from ruins. So her chosen High Septon will speak on her behalf, will answer to her as if she were the Father himself, they'll work together to set the example for all that is to come."

She spoke the last words through gritted teeth, a deadly edge contained within her voice in order to convey a threat she did not wish to speak out loud...that if her chosen High Septon ever dared stray from his Queen's chosen path, then she was free to find another man to replace him, and that he would not likely find her so generous with a second bout of mercy.

Renly chuckled, the first time she'd seen him smile since when she'd once called him an uncle, a man whom she trusted as much as her grandpapa or Tyrion Lannister...or Petyr Baelish. "I suppose I should get to dusting off an old tome of the Seven Pointed Star. Haven't read that thing in the Gods know how long."

"Do you think this is funny?"

Her abrupt switch in tone once again managed to stun the man, and again, she took a perverse delight in her ability, her power, where she could change a man's countenance over merely the turn of a mood, but she did not revel in it here, because this time it was Renly who'd insisted on fighting her, when she'd merely wished to charge him with his duty and move on to the rest of her day.

"Your Grace," he stuttered, addressing her by her title only now after he'd realized that his life, once saved, still lay on the line.

"Is it death you fear, Lord Renly? Or no, let me correct myself, you _don't_ fear death, not even the ghastliest pain, that's what you'd have me believe with all of his posturing of yours." Though she understood that her touch held far less sway with Renly than it would do most other men, she nevertheless reached out and stroked his cheek, cupping the bottom of his face with her hands as if he were just a truculent child. "How naive, how childish is it, this concept of fearing death, to believe it could be the worst fate one can suffer. Did you know what happened in the Kingswood when my husband rescued me?"

"He..., you were being escorted to Griffin's Roost?"

_The fool._

"I was to be executed, Lord Renly." Dark eyes recoiled in shock, apparently even her savior at the time hadn't realized exactly what he'd actually saved her from. "I felt the breath of my executioner at my neck, heard the ring of his blade. Except, in that moment which even the bravest of knights would dread, I felt not fright, but no, I welcomed it. Because what is death, when you'd had your entire family, your house, your dynasty, destroyed while you sat and ate lemoncakes? What is death, when you watched the child you'd just screamed to bring into this world be slaughtered before your eyes, before she'd been even a chance to suckle at her mother's breast? You lost Loras, and you expect all seven kingdoms to cry with you? What do you know what it's like to be raped, to lose a daughter, and then the man you love, and then two brothers whose lives depended on your good judgment, all in the same night?"

She squeezed her two fingers against his bearded chin, and though the Queen had enough sense to understand that the act could not give the man any actual sensation of pain, she felt satisfied when he flinched nonetheless.

"_My_ High Septon will rebuild the Faith by the accords of his heart and his conscience," she commanded, in the same cold tone as when she'd stood upon the blood of hundreds the day before. "He will also obey his Queen to the very last letter, because the High Septon is but an instrument of the Gods, the Queen who strums his strings. Do anything to displease me, Lord Septon, and I'll see to it that you understand what it's like to see death as the greatest of the Mother's mercies."


	40. The Queen Who Returned Into the Cold: II

**Jon**

It was almost midday before he finally gained his personal audience with the Queen. Granted, they'd exchanged a quick hug and words the bloody day before, and granted, they weren't alone, but it was Arya who'd joined them for a quick bite of food under an unexpectedly mild sun, and for Jon, this was as perfect of a reunion with his southron cousins as he could ever imagine or wish for. Seeing him, Sansa nodded her head and plotted a course towards a quiet corner in the camp, close to where a small creek bubbled and drowned out their voices before they penetrated the nearby trees, branches barren of leaves still despite the newfound warmth.

"Your Gra...Sansa." She'd already lectured him about calling her by her name the day before, so he would, though the woman to him seemed more a stranger than the last time she'd seen her, an innocent little girl yet already scarred by war visiting Winterfell for the last time before they'd changed her into someone different.

"I know you're going back to Castle Black," the Queen began. "I wish you'd stay, but..."

_You don't. You say this to me now. You may actually mean it. But Rhaegar's son has already overstayed his welcome south of Moat Cailin, we both know this._

"It's my duty," Jon said, wondering if he'd shrugged too hard that she'd notice his discomfort. "Besides, someone has to keep that castle from falling into complete ruin."

"Samwell's there, isn't he?"

The Queen looked away when she asked the question. Jon could understand, he knew Sam had little love for his father, and he knew very well that much as his friend would mourn it, there was no special tragedy to Dickon Tarly's death in battle, no more than any soldier, highborn or not. Samwell had returned back to the Wall more out of breath than usual, and he'd spoken of his gratitude that Jon's Queenly cousin had chosen to spare his beloved sister, but his friend had never been all that good at hiding his emotions. The gratitude was genuine, Jon did not deny that, yet he understood what Sam left unsaid, that his feelings towards the preservation of his mother's and sister's lives was severely tempered by the fact that the last living Tarly's, though lucky to keep their lives and names, had been forever deprived of their home.

"He went on quite the adventure," Jon said, trying to laugh it off. "I think he needs a rest from it all, through the next winter, in fact."

His dismissal was enough for Sansa, but not Arya. The younger Princess's eyes could see through the lie he'd uttered. But whether she cared, Jon couldn't tell. For all he knew, Arya would have slaughtered Sam with the remaining Tarly women had her sister given the order, and Jon wondered just how much of a stranger Arya was to him as well, the southernmost and strangest of all the Starks after it was said and done, Needle's thin blade hiding behind intricate layers of golden Dornish silks. Neither one of them felt any need to express regret towards the destruction of Horn Hill, though he should have known better to have expected it in the first place.

"You may have heard," Sansa continued, eager to change the subject, "Baelor will be going north too."

"Aye, with Uncle Benjen to Winterfell."

Finally, it was not a statue that spoke to him, but his family, the blood of his mother.

"It's a long ride from Castle Black, I know," Sansa said, grabbing both his wrists. "But if you could keep an eye on him..."

"For the rest of his life," Jon interrupted half jokingly, when it was clear that the Queen was lost for words, and both his cousins answered him with a knowing smirk.

"He might look like a dragon," Arya answered, "but he's a wolf too. Help remind him of that, whenever you can."

His younger cousin was blunt, but he knew the blunter message Arya hid with her voice.

_See to it that my half brother grows up to be like me. With no ambitions, with nothing but the shame I feel towards my dragon's blood, my father._

They'd have him promise to raise Baelor to join the Watch, Jon thought, except what worth remained in those once sacred vows, forever rendered moot by Lord Commander Tywin on behalf of Sansa I Stark? They were far too keen to not realize it as well, he realized too.

"He'll do well in the North, I think." When she spoke, Jon found that Sansa referred to her son almost as a stranger, an object, a vague idea she'd only read about. "He'll be happy, if it's all he knows. He can marry a good northern girl, an Umber, or Dustin...Jeyne's got a nephew close to his age too."

"Will you come and visit him," Jon asked the question more directly than he would have meant to, but surprisingly Sansa did not hesitate in answering him.

"I will. Uncle Benjen will probably need to remind him who I am each time, though."

Sansa smiled at she said the words, yet Jon sensed there was no jest to her tone. She had no expectation nor intent to make herself better known to her son than as an occasional stranger, and she fully expected Jon to act as Baelor's father the same way as Benjen had for him. He'd never known his own mother, so he was clearly no example to lecture Sansa on motherhood, but Jon couldn't help but wonder how his life could have differed had his mother survived the war. Would Lyanna have pressed her kingly brother to remain at court with her son? Would Jon have grown up a southron, immersed in plots against his family since his earliest memories?

"He'll find a home in Winterfell," Jon tried to assure her, though he had his doubts. He didn't even know if Cersei was going to return north, now that she had several excuses in the Reach to never step foot past the Neck again. Benjen would do his best, but the man who'd raised him had been much younger and sprightly then. Kendron? He doubted the heir to Winterfell wanted children of his own to begin with, except he had no choice as heir, so Baelor Stark would never be more than an unwelcome burden once he'd inherited the castle.

There crept an awkward pause between the three, all of them sensing their unique concerns about the future of the Queen's eldest yet disinherited son.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you...," he began, he couldn't help it, Sansa had already ordered him the day before, no apologies, she'd not accept them, but the uneasy silence pushed him to just say..._something_.

Fortunately his cousin came to his rescue.

"Thank you," Sansa said unexpectedly. "For Trystane. For being kind and decent to him, when you didn't have to, for helping him feel at home, his years in the north."

"He deserved better," Jon muttered to himself. But did he? Love aside, a Kingsguard sleeping with a married Queen was as...as idiotic as anything imaginable by even the dimmest of fools. He should have known better, Jon should have known better, he'd scolded himself at the time. It was obvious that the young Prince had been...well, if not in love, then thought himself in love with his cousin ever since her last visit to Winterfell. The boy would have been better off joining him in Castle Black, uncomfortable as any Dornishman would be in the extreme north...but though Jon knew something of Trystane's little pet love, he never expected him to actually _act_ upon it, the damned fool. "Guess if I had to die young, having a capital of a continent named after me is better than any song they'd sing of me."

"I'm sure Sansa can name Castle Black after you if you want," Arya mused.

Sansa quieted. It seemed she had little more urge to discuss her lost love. And why would she, having found a new love of her life as easily as an able hunter seeking his next prey?

"Look," the Queen said, coming to a standstill and placed herself upon a small rock next to two empty logs, where they joined her in sitting. It shocked Jon that his most delicate cousin could choose for herself such an unladylike throne, except he had to remind himself that this was a woman who lived camp to camp the last two years, another reminder of, if he hadn't changed much in her eyes, how much a stranger she'd become to him in the intervening years. "You don't have to spend the rest of your life in the cold, Jon. You can come south, I know it'll be...perilous, all the politics of it, but I know you, I know your heart."

"And she knows that every inch of this country will be looked after securely by Daenerys and I," Arya added, smirking. "You couldn't possibly threaten my dear sister, even if you tried. Though...I wouldn't mind seeing you try, it'd be fun, actually."

Jon laughed lightheartedly, not just at Arya's words, but at the look of exaggerated annoyance Sansa gave her sister, exactly how he remembered the two of them, when they remained innocent children. He'd given Arya her Needle, but Jon had never expected her to actually _use_ it, much less survive three of the bloodiest battles the realm had known since the Dance of Dragons. And Sansa...well...killing two whitecloaks was somehow the least of the surprises sprung him by her.

"Fun for you, maybe, not for me." But even as they laughed, he could not help but notice Sansa's light orbs observing him carefully, unable to help herself in assessing just how much of a threat he was, or could be. Not that he could blame her. "But I grew up in the North. It's my home, it's all I've known...it's where I belong."

"The Wolf's Watch will be allowed to marry, if not inherit." Jon raised his head at Sansa with surprise when she'd said these words, though not Arya, which meant she already knew of this. "Not that they'd have anything to inherit, their vows will forswear off all lands, forever."

"If not wine and silks and spoils from any lord who'd be untrue to either their Queen or their peasants," Arya said, and she ought know better than anyone, considering it would be she along with the Targaryen Princess who would patrol the realm as part of their new positions in Sansa's Small Council, travelling courts of one woman each to adjudicate between all these new...political...and lawful apparatuses Sansa and Lord Tywin had somehow cooked up in the ruins of Castamere.

"Maybe it wouldn't be improper for the Night's Watch to be allowed marriage as well. Some of the Iron Born will be settled in the Gift, along with...any southron widows or daughters I can't entirely trust..."

"Talla Tarly's pretty," Arya suggested, and Jon could only shudder as both his cousins gazed at him with predatory eyes, "not a great beauty like Lady Margaery or the Princess, but pretty nonetheless."

"Stop it," Sansa asked, slapping playfully at her sister, before eyeing Jon with the same dreadful mischief. "Lady Margaery will be lonely enough on Bear Island. After a few years, she might see more and more of Robb in you."

_Is that supposed to be a compliment,_ Jon wondered while the Queen winked at him.

"If I'm free to pursue any marriage I'd like," he replied, reluctantly playing along with their girlish games, "why not the Princess Daenerys?"

Arya chortled, spit flying out of her mouth. "She's your aunt, or have you forgotten that?"

Jon shrugged. "I see why House Targaryen is so keen on incest now, if all their sisters and aunts and mothers looked like that."

"Why not adopt more Targaryen habits," Sansa said, feeling as free as Arya in egging him on now, "marry them both? Though, I doubt you can convince Dany to spend more than a few moons in the north at the most."

"Dany," Jon asked with one raised eyebrow. They were allies, sure, but were they so familiar with each other? Was it possible that his aunt knew Sansa more than he, this strangest of friendships?

"Only the Queen's allowed to call her that," Arya said. "For you, it's the Master of Laws and Whispers."

"Or is it Mistress," Sansa wondered, narrowing her eyes.

"Beats me," Arya replied nonchalantly, "it's your Small Council, you make the titles."

"Yes, I can make or name whatever I fucking well like, can I?"

"Just don't go too fucking mad," Arya said, matching Sansa in profanity, to Jon's mild horror. Placing her hand between herself and her sister, the young girl's dark eyes turned to him, pretending to confide in him a secret. "I worry all this power might finally take its toll upon her senses, and she'd name an actual direwolf as her newest Hand, after old Tywin finally shits his britches."

"I've a man for the job," Jon suggested jovially, feeling lightheaded as if he'd already had several goblets of ale that day, rather than merely a single sip from Tyrion's canteen. "He's a Tollett, name's Edd. He's keeping Samwell company at Castle Black, but...I see real leadership in him one day..."

They both frowned at him, not being privy to the joke by not actually knowing the man, and Jon grinned sheepishly in return. It had been so easy, to see the blood from afar, and...well, actually condemn his cousins in his mind, he could admit to have at least having thought such thoughts, before banishing them to the furthest reaches of his head.

Sansa laughed anyway, the sound marvelous and pleasant and innocent, belonging to a woman who, completely unlike Arya's jibes, stood with complete control of every sense and emotion, down to the very last breath emanating from her royal nostrils. This was no Mad Queen, no power hungry tyrant, but his cousin, his family, his blood, and that whatever decision she'd make, whomever she'd ordered killed, or moved, or exiled, it may well be that she knew better than him, better than anyone alive or dead, what had to be done.

They'd lost so much, his family, both his families. But won this day they stood together, they were his blood, and would remain so until the sun chose to set in the east one day.

* * *

**Arya**

"Did you mean it?"

"About what?"

Sansa frowned, though she could tell her sister knew exactly what she was referring to.

"When you said Jon could stay in the south."

"I did," Sansa insisted. Though she'd hesitated only a half second, Arya could tell she had indeed still hesitated. "You trust him. You know I trust him."

"You shouldn't."

Even though her sister feigned her indignation, both of them knew they were acting their parts to each other, same as her fellow Mistress of Whispers and Laws had done on the stages of Braavos years before.

"Don't pretend, Your Grace," she made sure to utter her sister's title in jest, "it's not Jon who we'd worry about."

"It's everyone else," Sansa agreed. The bags under her eyes looked worse by the day, even with the war long over. But the Red Council was done with too, as she'd already overheard some of the surviving lords name the previous day's ordeals, and Arya could only hope that peace...an extended, stable peace, would allow her sister better sleep through the nights. Having Edric helped, she could surmise. "Jon might not even know he's being used, not until it's too late."

The war was over, so she'd been occupied savoring the fruits of it, drinking and feasting on all that Casterly Rock had to offer, sneaking away to the taverns with Sansa, Edric, and Daenerys several nights whilst they waited for their Red Council to gather and bear fruit. There'd been boys too to fend off the boredom, a Crakehall lad had been her first, though she'd never give him the satisfaction of knowing that. There was Andrey Dalt on the ride down the Blackwater, even a drunken serving boy at the tavern who probably couldn't recall her face the next morning, much less know her actual title. The pleasures were...passable, she supposed. But they felt passing, in a way, worlds away from what Sansa enjoyed with her Edric, Arya could tell. Or Trystane, though she'd been trapped in Sunspear for the entirety of that affair.

Maybe she'd find her own Edric one day. Maybe she never would, and it comforted her, that the prospect did not bother her. But what with a life on the road seeing to the Queen's justice and keeping to the Queen's courts, so as to stretch the eyes of the wolf near and far throughout all Seven Kingdoms, Arya did not worry that whatever remained out there for her to find, whether it be men, or friends, comrades, or hells, just a new sword, nothing would stop her from finding what she'd seek.

"But I would have been willing to take that chance," she continued, breaking through Arya's musings of her futures. "For Jon. And for you, because you love him, as much as Robb, or Bran, or Rickon."

"He's never make you take that chance though...that's the same reason you'd trust him...that you'd be willing to risk it for him, in the first place."

As they walked, approaching what remained of the erstwhile city set upon the outskirts of Westwater, Arya sensed her hold on her sister's sole attentions waning with nearby banners becoming nearer, because the Queen belonged more to the realm, than to the few she loved and trusted. Except Edric, and she'd envy him, if it weren't for the fact that Arya had no wish to be dragged by the leash by one hand for the rest of her life, even if the hand belonged to Sansa.

So she departed her sister without need for a farewell, because it wasn't farewell, not yet. Ellaria had left with Nymeria and Tyene that morning. Arya missed them, her sisters in spirit, if not in blood, but she supposed she'd seen them more often than not. There was the problem that they would lie on the opposite of the continent as Jon, that would inconvenience her life greatly, unless she could somehow talk Jon into marrying Tyene or Sarella. Then there was Shireen. Though as much as she missed her old friend from her days at court, she expected some cross words at the girl for having been talked into war against them by her uncle. Arya had never expected Shireen to be punished, if not for her sake, then the fact that Sansa could understand better than most what it meant to place her trust with a less than deserving uncle.

"Where do you think you're going first," a melodious and deep voice asked her.

"The Stormlands, I think," Arya replied to her fellow Mistress of Laws and Whispers, two members of the Small Council who would share their titles for the first time in known history. "You?"

"The Westerlands are my responsibility," Daenerys replied. "They're also Lyonel's future. I think I owe it to the both of us, not to mention Queen Sansa, that not a stone is left misplaced in our kingdom."

"Because if there is a misplaced stone," Arya said, continuing the older woman's unspoken thoughts, "and you don't tell Her Grace, then you can be sure that Lord Tywin will."

Both women exchanged a knowing glance. Sansa knew not to trust nor depend upon Lord Tywin entirely, though she had little choice for the moment. But it would be up to the only two Princesses of age in the kingdoms to counter the power of the Wolf's Watch. Well, not that, exactly. The lords were a power, the power which had held the realm for House Targaryen, and then Stark, for hundreds of years. The people had been the power Sansa galvanized in her war, except they were scattered, chaotic, lacking a coherent voice. They would rally to their Queen, when their Queen stood amongst them, but Sansa knew better than she that, left alone, they remained free to be influenced by literally anyone with the smallest drops of charisma in their blood, from an uncommonly eloquent baker to one of Lady Cersei's shits, given the chance.

Which was why the Wolf's Watch would speak for the people, listen to their grievances, especially concerning the lords, if not against each other more often than not, and channel their incoherent and disparate voices across an entire continent into one for the benefit of the Lord Hand Tywin Lannister, who'd betrayed first his king and childhood friend, and now the thousands years old order her own father had held with the highest reverence.

Thus was the reason for the third voice, the third great power under the crown, belonging to her and Daenerys, and those whom they'd find and train to follow in their footsteps. Despite their places at the Queen's Small Council table, they would be tasked with roaming all Seven Kingdoms on behalf of the Crown. If the lords spoke for themselves, and the people spoke through Tywin Lannister, ironic as that thought was, two Princesses, their positions, titles, and wealth secure and impenetrable, would interpret all the varying songs of the realm for the benefit of their Queen. And to the people, lords or ladies, baker, tavern wench or man of the Wolf's Watch, they would channel directly the voice of the Crown to them all, ensuring that regardless of perpetrator or victim, highborn or commoner, justice and righteousness carried throughout all her sister's kingdoms.

"Do you think you'll ever have children, Princess Arya?"

It was an unexpected question, both considering its source, and in that Arya had no immediate answer for her. "Maybe," Arya shrugged. "Sansa has enough heirs already, what with all our cousins and hells, Lady Jeyne, I'll drink myself to death if she ever sits on the Iron Throne...I doubt she'd want another line of Starks eager to challenge Minisa's claim."

"Yet, you won't rule it out either," Daenerys merely answered knowingly, ignoring the rest of her rant. Because she was right, just as Sansa would never force Jon to imprison himself at Castle Black the rest of his life, she'd never order Arya to never bear children, though no doubt she'd prefer both instances to be true. When Daenerys spoke again, she'd moved past it already. "I do worry about bringing Lyonel on the roads so often. But it can be a good thing, I think, for him to grow up not in a pampered castle, but seeing and knowing the lands and people he's to rule over one day."

"Minisa too, if Sansa intends to spend more time away from the Red Keep until the palaces at Trystanen are completed." She'd never held the castle too dear to her heart, growing up she'd dreamed of wandering the Kingdoms as a hedge knight the likes of Ser Arthur Dayne or Duncan the Tall...which was perhaps exactly why Sansa had assigned her to this role parallel to Daenerys's. She'd felt guilty for not being homesick even when held against her will in Sunspear, but she wouldn't have to feel guilty in the new world of her sister's to come, because Sansa knew exactly what she wanted, she knew what everyone wanted, and she'd allow them each indulgences even as they served her crown, and that was exactly why her sister would be the greatest Queen, or King, to ever rule any realms, Arya was sure of that.

Seeing the woman's mysterious purple eyes wandering down towards her blade, Arya picked out her Needle and handed it to the Princess, who regarded the light and glistening weapon in her hands curiously, aware of all the blade's bloody history despite its spotless veneer at the moment. She pivoted her feet backwards, and made several clumsy jabs stabbing motions with Needle, Arya watching her feet carefully because it looked as though Daenerys was about to trip over her own feet with each thrust. But she didn't, and taking back her blade, Arya allowed herself a smile of approval at the Princess.

"I don't know who's worse with a sword, you or my sister, however many Lord Commanders of the Kingsguard slain by her hand or not."

"We'll make evenly matched jousting partners at Her Grace's next Grand Tourney then," Daenerys replied with a grin, before narrowing her eyes more seriously. "Are you going to miss the war, fighting?"

"It's all I dreamed of when I was a child," she replied, eyeing the calm murmurs of the Blackwater in the distance, "riding next to Robb and Bran onto the battlefield, be seen an equal to my brothers in the eyes of the men. Instead, I marched next to the likes of Edric and Brienne, names I'd never heard of, until they saved Sansa's life. Edric has my sister, that'll be more than he can handle in the peace to come. Ser Brienne has a whole island to inherit and rule, she's earned it too. But for me..."

"You have the whole realm at the tips of your fingers," Daenerys said while she faltered, "we both do. Sansa chose you for a reason, I think. Not because you're a great warrior, not because you're her sister...and not just because you've suffered and know what it's like to be wronged...but because you know what's _right_. Every village and castle we visit, every time we see injustice, and leave with justice served, we'll have that satisfaction in our hearts, same as a battle won, except with far less blood."

"I'm sure there's ample blood to be shed by the both of us in the years to come," Arya replied, sensing in the back of her mind what Daenerys did not feel obliged to say, that if Sansa chose Arya for her position because of some innate sense of justice, that the Targaryen Princess had been chosen for the same reason as well. "It wasn't hard for me, really. Doing what was right was also serving my family, my Queen and sister. I can't imagine what it was like for you...they say your brother raised you. To have to make that decision...turn against your house, your blood..."

"He was a decent man once," Daenerys replied carefully. "He was good to me, to Viserys. Yet Viserys ended up rotten anyway, didn't he? And Rhaegar...he...I wouldn't say he changed...perhaps he'd always been the same man, I just hadn't seen it. He always told us, how we were going to win back the kingdoms of the dragon, what we deserved...yet, what did that really mean anyway? When I first saw your sister, a little girl trembling upon the Iron Throne...I wanted to be kind to her...I said kind words to her...yet I returned to Pentos knowing that my brother had nothing but the vilest plans for the poor girl...that he'd see her dead, after he'd already killed her father and brother. Yet, in some ways, Rhaegar and his Spider dealt her a fate worse than death, one I couldn't even have imagined..." The older woman sighed, and shook her head. "Perhaps that's the lesson I learned. Rhaegar had always been decent to me, until the end, when I rebelled against what he wanted me to be. But just because a man is a good father...or a good brother...doesn't mean that he's a good man, doesn't mean that the suffering he'd cause would outweigh the good he gives to the world."

"It's a good lesson," Arya agreed, thinking of her own father, how the same could not be said of Eddard the Just. "It's a lesson I'm sure we'll have to draw upon many times in the world to come." Reaching out, she squeezed her fellow Princess's hand, proud for her own part in this final peace, the end of three long generations of warring and feuding between the Houses Stark and Targaryen. "I've had enough of fighting. I know what it's like now, and I know that I'm damned good at it, that I can match any knight on the field."

"Now all that's left to prove is how well you'll thrive in the peace."

"It's the peace we made, the peace Sansa made. Let's not ruin it like the last peace."

* * *

**Jaime**

Years of waiting came down to finding a desolate enough boulder deep in the woods, away from prying eyes, then bending Cersei over and fucking her for all of two minutes before he grunted his way to completion. Jaime pulled away, grimacing as the side of his sister's face betrayed her disappointment in their encounter, her disgruntled lips already snarled downwards. He approached her again, to kiss her, and she bit back at his lips rather violently. This was not the time for lovemaking, so it would seem, not without the sharpest edges of passion attached to the word.

"We should go," Jaime said, looking around their environs nervously. At the very least, his years in the wild had enabled him to hear even a squirrel's approach under the tree cover, and know how to discern between a harmless squirrel...or someone less harmless. "Someone will notice us missing."

"I don't even care this point," Cersei muttered, straightening her skirts and stockings, wiping away his seed against the coarse, rocky surface of the boulder. "Let them catch us, we're siblings, twins, we need our _bonding_ after three long years of not even speaking to each other, it's perfectly reasonable, really."

Jaime scoffed. "Are you mad?" Had her years in captivity gone to her head. He would not have minded it himself, the prospect of sitting around in a castle with his two children, being fed wine and steaks being practically all he could aspire to after more than twenty years freezing his balls off alongside the scum of all Seven Kingdoms at the Wall, or bloodying the snow as he cut down one wildling after another, some innocent, others not so much.

"Our children..._our_ children," he continued, "stand to inherit the two most powerful castles in the Reach! I love you Cersei...I want you, you know that! The moment you call for me, I'd answer, I promise you..."

"Where were you when I was being held at Horn Hill," she snapped at him unreasonably.

_What do you know of sacred vows, woman? _ He laughed. _No better than myself. Or father, what a brilliantly golden family we are together, save Tyrion._

"I'm free now," he insisted, though the concept still felt vague to him. What was he supposed to do, as a Prince, except the same he'd always done, which was whatever his father asked of him, or Cersei, except for the few nightmarish years when he'd been the property of the Mad King. "I won't ever let you be hurt again, or our children, I'm a Prince now, I have that power." Except even saying the words didn't make him actually feel powerful. "But if they find out about us...about Tommen and Myrcella...all I can do with my sword, my new position...not even our father has to power to protect them!"

"That's where you're wrong," Cersei corrected him imperiously, surprising him not with her vehemence, but her sheer and brazen confidence. "Queen Sansa uprooted two great houses to give them Highgarden and the Hightower. Every day they sit in power, she risks her pride, her reputation. The realm finds out they're bastards, that she foisted a boy born of incest to her dearest friend Lady Jeyne, sure to sit on her Small Council one day, it'll be the Queen who'd look the fool. And I know Sansa Stark, she's not the kind to ever be made a fool of, you heard what happened to the mighty Rhaegar Targaryen, all the Tyrells...what'll happen to Randyll Tarly." Placing one finger tantalizingly against his lips, she smiled, and all Jaime wanted was for the arguing to cease, all he wanted was her again. "I think if anything, the Queen and our father will murder each and every person who'd discover the secret even swifter than all her treasonous lords from yesterday."

"How," he wondered, "how can you be so sure?"

Except he was now far less sure of what he'd thought than before, after a single diatribe from Cersei. Examining her, then his own robes, happy enough that they could pass for merely long lost siblings on an innocuous stroll in the woods, they walked together, what little time here they had with each other already consigned to join the drying blood of hundreds spilled beneath their feet. Following the faint path through the trees, he thought of that familiar road from Castle Black to Winterfell. He missed the North in a way actually, things had been simple there. So long as he controlled himself to not be too obvious, he could see Cersei..._enough_, he supposed. There could always be a reason for why a First Ranger of the Watch needed to be in Winterfell, and her fool of a husband was and remained easy for even him, by far the stupidest of the Lannister clan, to outwit. Now his father had all he'd ever wanted, the realm he'd once held, his legacy and line assured, if not by his position, his title, then certainly the unforgettable imprint the Red Council would leave for all the rest of time.

And who'd suffer for it? Who else but Tywin Lannister's beloved firstborn, his heir, who'd now have to marry some insufferable bore of a wench. There was already talk of the late Tytos Blackwood's only daughter, once she came of age in a few years. Jaime could only hope the girl was dim, but he could not hope that literally every single man and woman south of the Neck would not be ready to pounce the moment he or Cersei slipped and made their inevitable mistake.

"Are you going to return to Winterfell," he asked, "to your dear, beloved husband?" They hadn't had a chance to even speak yet of their future, what it meant now that they'd all been freed from their respective prisons. Given their precious time together, it seemed appropriate they'd chosen to spend it mindlessly fucking instead.

"Kendron needs me," she replied unevenly, indicating that she herself wasn't sure of it at all. "I suppose it would do well for them all to see me by Benjen's side for some time at least, it'd be good for Cella and Tommen's...security. But they need me too, all my children need me."

She grinned cleverly at him, subtly, knowingly.

"Our children will be scattered across the continent. They've been tasked with great responsibilities, great pressures." He himself could understand the feeling better than most. "Of course they'd need their loving mother to visit them now and then, offer them her love, her support, her wisdom..."

The wily grin remained on Cersei's face, as if she'd somehow outsmarted the entire realm with him, as she'd done with Benjen Stark for half their lives. "And should a weak and frail woman travelling the realm alone be in need of protection along the way..."

"Than who better the second man of the Wolf's Watch," Jaime said, feeling much better than he had before, "to escort his beloved sister while he travels from city to city, eager to look after the needs and wants of all the little people he's charged with protecting."

Seeing the edge of the trees towards the clearing, he let go of her hand, knowing it would be a long time before he'd feel her touch again. But that day would come, she would make sure of that, they both would. Life would not make it easy for either of them, but since when had that ever been the case of any child unlucky enough to have to call Tywin Lannister their father?

* * *

**Sansa**

As flattering as it was to hold the entirety of her seven kingdoms with the cusp of her fingers, there was relief in seeing the lords depart Trystanen banner by banner, because what purpose remained in their continued attendance for a Council whose role had been fulfilled, one way or another. Nor did the remaining men or women, whose chosen Queen would retain her throne, wished to drink and revel bathing in the blood of their departed peers, nor did Sansa wish to do so herself, for the matter. Many of her loyal supporters, including her two uncles, departed solemnly, not joyously, and though the Queen knew that their loyalties would remain firm for now, her Hand understood all too well they would bear watching, no matter how fervent their voices and votes were on her behalf days before.

Would she miss Baelor? A lifetime north had tempered whatever Targaryen entitlements would have ever tempted Jon, and Sansa could only hope the cold could freeze the same ambitions out of her half dragon son. Several years grown now, looking upon his eyes, speaking to him, comforting him that his beloved _"Maj'ry"_ was good and well, she'd realized that her son by Rhaegar was nothing like the hideous and scaled monster she'd imagined, and dreaded, during their separation. But then she thought of Minisa, whom she loved so much, who reminded her of her mother, and her father and grandfather, who was hers and Edric's and no one else's...and how every breath Baelor took would pose a threat to Minisa's inheritance, her life, the child she loved more than Baelor.

_No, that's not right._ She did not love Minisa more than Baelor, because she still could not muster any love for her eldest child at all. But after becoming reacquainted with her son, she found that she could not hate him either. That was a good start, as promising as any she could hope for, she figured.

"The Throne is yours," the Prince of Dragonstone commented beside her, pulling his horse up at the head of their procession east. They would march in the afternoon, make haste for a capital she was in no hurry to return to. "Sansa the Conqueror, they'll say of you one day, years after the memories of Aegon and his sister wives have faded."

"I never knew you were a man so inclined towards flattery, Prince Tywin. Tell me, is that how you won the Mad King's favor so many years before."

The game commenced for her anew. Tywin Lannister's weathered eyes strayed, down from hers, and towards the two Valyrian swords dangling by Edric's hips. Sansa remembered Tyrion telling her a lifetime ago about House Lannister's legendary but lost blade. Would that be yet another price she'd need to pay him, for his services, his loyalty?

"Aerys was my friend," the old man mumbled, "back in a time when that word meant something to me." His voice sounded lost, drifting through the past, and Sansa wondered whether she could ever live so long, through so many years and trials. Or whether she'd even want to.

"Was my father your enemy? Tell me the truth of it." She didn't ask this of him, she ordered, so as to remind him of their respective places.

Tywin Lannister shook his head with a chuckle. "I do believe Eddard Stark was a good man, Your Grace, if that's what you want to hear from me. He had good intentions too. But I was also surprised he lasted as long as he did, him and Jon Arryn."

"There's a time for honor," the Queen mused, as dust settled in every direction from the passing of the lords back to their homes and hearths, those who were lucky enough to keep them. "The likes of Jaehaerys and Daeron the Good and Aegon the Unlikely lived long enough, didn't they? Perhaps it's luck that they didn't have hyenas the likes of Littlefingers or Spiders lurking about in their courts. Or you, or I."

"Or they knew to put them away sooner than not," Tywin replied in an intriguing tone, and Sansa sensed that she would have a ready and willing sparring partner whenever she wished to muse or trade dueling thoughts upon the philosophies of the power and politics that were her birthright. "After all, our Council here was but the slaughter of Brynden Rivers the Bloodraven writ large, yet the Unlikely heir banished the man his first act as King, same as your father did to me. Yet, was it also not Eddard the Just who raised Lord Baelish to his Small Council, who let the Mad King's Spider walk free, who failed to pursue his enemies across the Narrow Sea, giving them all the time they needed to exact their revenge?"

She looked to Edric, before turning back to him. "What revenge is it then, that you imagine upon House Stark?"

Her husband had yet to say a word through the entire exchange. In fact, most observers would think him dull, dumb, were it not for his many accomplishments, and Sansa had a feeling Edric preferred it that way, because though he did not speak, he listened, he observed, he remembered, perhaps there was no better person in all seven kingdoms in such skills, moreso than men like Tywin with their repute, men like Tyrion with their vaunted cleverness.

"With all respect, Your Grace, to you and your father," Tywin answered, "I'd not call it revenge, but I suppose neither one of us would delve too deeply into what Eddard Stark of Winterfell would think of his daughter's newest Hand, or how he'd attained the position, or the Wall he left behind."

There was a steadiness to this man, a never wavering...not confidence, not arrogance...but just steadiness, an aura she could not translate into word.

"Eddard Stark was a decent conqueror," the old man continued, "a decent King, but by birth or by experience, every man's greatest and last enemy is his own nature, an enemy rarely overcome. For example, Your Grace, your father wasn't the kind of conqueror you are..."

"I'm afraid you give me too much credit. Edric did most of my conquering for me."

"You made my armies," her husband replied, who appeared shy because his natural reservedness before those he was not familiar with, those whom he could not yet fully trust. "I just told them what to do."

"Prince Edric is right," Tywin Lannister agreed, looking knowingly at her husband. "On the battlefield, perhaps he has no equal, perhaps he never will, if we're so lucky. Off the battlefield, well...let's just say that I don't think King Eddard the _Just_ would have been capable of the kind of conquering you've just accomplished, Your Grace."

"The kind _we've_ accomplished," the Queen emphasized to her Hand. _Don't you forget your part in this bloodshed, _though it appeared the old lion had little inclination towards denial, that was not his style. "But it's a different thing between conquering and ruling, between taking a crown and keeping it, is that the wisdom you with to bequeath me, Prince Tywin?"

He nodded. "Yes. Conquering...and ruling. Your father wasn't half bad at either of it, I don't think. But there's two aspects to ruling. One which the ruler looks out for the interests of his...or her, subjects, your father was good at that. But the other aspect, a ruler looking after his own interests, well..."

The old man left the last part unsaid out of respect, but the Queen wasn't about to let him off so easily.

"I think you're wrong."

He raised one eyebrow, but rather than fight her, he seemed actually curious as to what she meant to say. Before she continued, she grasped her husband's hand.

"Ruling _is_ conquering, I think. You're right, Edric and I, we did this together. Edric did what Aegon did, without dragons. But my part in it, it wasn't armies or lands or castles I've conquered, Prince Tywin. It's people. Yes, the fealty of men, lords and ladies, whether by quill or by sword...but truly, it's their hearts...perhaps not the hearts of the men who depart Trystanen with their lives, but the hearts of the millions of men, women, and children scattered across all seven kingdoms...that's what makes my heart race, my good Lord Hand...that's what excites me.

This is but my first round of conquering. The rest of my reign, the rest of my life, I'll have to conquer the hearts and souls of this country again and again, moon by moon, year by year, season by season. That's why I need you, Prince Tywin. I have Edric as my captain in war, to smite any armies foolish enough to oppose me. I need you, as Lord Hand and Lord Commander of the Wolf's Watch, as my captain in the peace. The lords who support me, _and_ who show their subjects peace and justice, will be richly rewarded. Those who refuse...so long as we hold the love of the people, the Watch of the Wolf will be their teeth they'd live in fear of."

She meant every word. Already she missed that feeling, that rush of blood into every part of her body, such as when she'd delivered her sermons to the masses in Lannisport or Oldtown, or even sitting in a small tavern, the center of all the known world for all she could tell, the object of nothing but abject worship by a people who'd yet to learn, unlike many of their highborn guardians, that royal blood still bled same as anyone else.

"Perhaps the Gods are real after all," Tywin Lannister mused humorously, yet in a tone which made obvious that this old lion still had claws and teeth left to bare. "To consign me to this fate in my own age, the task of acting as the greatest champion of farmers and common butchers as Westeros has ever known..."

When he laughed, she could taste his cynicism. Just as appropriate, she thought, their small band of cynics, because who better to watch for their own interests than the lucky few who were learned and wise enough to never trust the goodness or purity in the intentions of another soul for even one second, for the rest of their lives.

* * *

**Edric**

Their first day's ride was a short one, and Edric imagined that he could still see dashes of blood in the Blackwater, rolling calmly by their side as the sun set behind them. The Red Council was all anyone wished to whisper about, lord or villager, and he wondered whether the man for whom the realm's new capital had been named after would find it appropriate. Edric only met the young Martell Prince once, after all, and it was odd for him to think of Trystane as young, his age this day numbering about the same as his predecessor's in the Queen's affections, on his dying day. The thought of Trystane's death still could not help but sadden him, because he was a good man, from what Edric could tell, but also because he know how deeply that would had cut through Sansa's soul. Yet, he would not be where he was, he would not have a beloved wife he'd couldn't imagine living a day without, if Trystane Martell had survived Rhaegar and the Red Keep.

Yet, it also didn't bother Edric that Sansa would name her capital for her old lover, because Trystane had made Sansa happy long ago, and also because he had no doubt that there would be many more things his wife would see appropriate to name after him in their days ahead, not that he cared about such glories anyway.

_Has the blood of the Red Council completed your revenge,_ he wondered of Sansa's first love, _or were you of a much more forgiving nature than the Queen you loved? That we both love._

"Are you tired," Sansa asked him, as he approached her side by the fire.

"Tired," Edric asked dismissively. "I haven't had myself a good battle in quite a few moons now."

A soft hand grabbed his wrist as he reached for a chicken leg, her touch, as always, as utterly and devastatingly beguiling as the eyes which guided her every movement.

"I mean, with life."

Her words seemed humorous, her tone light, yet her eyes completely serious.

"What do you mean?"

Sensing that there lay something vital beneath her throat, he took a small piece of meat and sat onto the log next to his wife, nestling his body cozily against hers. He did not need the maesters to tell him that spring had finally returned. The evening was warm, and Edric thought he'd actually miss the winter, all those cozy nights they'd spent resting against each other's bodies, the frigidness of the night's air as overbearing and threatening as their still unconquered enemies at the time.

"We'll be in King's Landing for some time, I suppose. Some ceremonies, I'll have to make a grand gesture or something of the like on the Iron Throne, we have all the executions, speeches, quite a few Small Council meetings to begin things."

"You don't sound like you're looking forward to it at all."

He was actually intrigued at the idea of sitting amidst an actual Small Council table. It was his duty now, as Master of War, not an unexpected role, but he could not imagine meeting and discussing anything serious in a damp, coiffed room in the Red Keep with ceilings that could fit the entire height Balerion the Dread, rather than out in the field, under a tent, dressed in armor with a soft rain pattering above their heads.

"It has to be done, just like the Red Council." So she'd heard the chatterings too. "I was thinking today...I've spent practically all the last two years on horse, riding from camp to camp. I don't love it, but..."

"You're used to it," Edric completed her thought, understanding. The Queen nodded, and he thought the times he'd returned to Starfall alone after being charged as Beric's squire, each empty homecoming failing to match his dwindling expectations for the occasions.

"I didn't think I would envy my sister or Daenerys. They'll be seeing this country, speaking to its people. It'll be good for them, and it'll be good for the realm..." Sansa looked away from him, even as she played her fingers nervously around his own.

"You want us to join them?" Her ghost of a nod passed almost imperceptibly, as if the Queen were ashamed to admit the fact.

"It'll be good to spend time with my sister...and Daenerys...when we're _not_ at war. Or perhaps we can take some time for ourselves. Lady...I'm sorry, Ser Brienne has told me of how beautiful the Isle of Tarth is. It wouldn't be bad for us to make a trip there, meet with her people, listen to their pleas, conduct court with Lord Selwyn. He's a good man, from everything I've heard, and Tarth will be in good hands with Brienne after him, but still...it doesn't hurt, for as many people of this realm to see their Queen, and her them."

It seemed strange that she would speak so nervously to him, this woman who had stood firmly whilst they cut brutally the heads of hundreds of traitors before her eyes, at her commands. A small, content wail emerged from a nearby tent. Minisa would be asleep soon, Sansa had already found a new handmaiden in some young Blackwood girl. He'd looked forward to life in the Red Keep, if only because he'd know for certain that both his wife and his daughter remained close by, that they would be comfortable, properly looked after. But what did it matter, so long as they were, wherever they'd travel to?

"You're not worried," he asked, casting a stray glance over at the tent of the lone Lannister remaining in their procession, "that Tywin Lannister will take the kingdoms from under you while we're away?"

"I think he knows our fates are forever intertwined by now." As she spoke, she gazed into the fire, and Edric thought that she was not as sure in her words as they both would hope. "If he wanted to kill me, to steal a Throne he has no right to...I'd be dead already. And if he did kill me, there'd be nothing keeping him from the wrath of the mob, or the hundreds of lords who'd just seen their childhood friends and jousting partners die for the sake of a claim so quickly betrayed." Then, her eyes lit up in merriment, her finger tapped the tip of his nose gently, before she leaned towards him and kissed at his cheek. "Besides, I judge Tywin Lannister a sane man, and no sane man would ever wish to line up on the opposite side of the battlefield from you."

_No man can win every battle,_ he thought anxiously, before putting his fears aside.

She continued, her grip tightening against his hand. "But you've spent so much of your life in camps, on marches, in war. You've got yourself a Queen now, and the Red Keep. I wasn't sure if...if you'd be tired...if, when you married me, and fought my wars...you dreamed of your reward laying in Maegor's Holdfast...a life of silken sheets, late mornings, and an endless procession of lemoncakes and Arbor Gold."

It sounded nice, but only because the words came from his wife's beautiful, husky voice. The idea of the pampered life, a life which she'd led, before it betrayed her, while the prospect was tempting, it also felt as foreign to him as the vaunted walls of Qarth, or the shadowed wraiths of Asshai. This last war, it didn't matter whether he slept in a cold and gloomy tent, or beside the flowered walls of Highgarden or the Goldengrove or Casterly Rock, so long as Sansa and he held each other while they slept.

"If you want to rule from King's Landing, then I'll do it. If you want us to travel, from Tarth to the Iron Islands, I'll follow you there and back. I don't care whether I'm to be the Prince of a royal palace, or of a different tent and camp each night. The only two things that matter to me in all this world is you, and Minisa." Cradling her face inside his hands, the wrinkles of his fingers worn before their time, he kissed her gently, as they had on the day of their wedding. "You're the Queen, Sansa, you're my Queen, do what you feel you have to do. Don't worry about me, about what I'd want, or need. Because you're it, there's nothing else. Wherever you go, I'll follow, so long as we're together."

The road he'd traveled before meeting his Queen had been far from one of suffering, or torment, especially compared to Sansa's path. Yet, he could not help but shudder thinking of it, recalling at the loneliness...at the sheer _emptiness_ of an existence when he'd fought, and killed, and laughed and lived for_ no reason_ at all. So whatever battles still remained him, whatever lives needed to be ended by his sword, or by his mind, none of it mattered to him, so long as she traveled her path by his.

"Together," she said, as if the word, uttered and shared by her husband's side, was the greatest treasure known to man.

"Together," he agreed. Blessed or accursed, in life, or death, and whatever still lay for the two of them in between it all.


	41. Epilogue I: The Ghosts of Winterfell

**Edric - Year 314**

The spires of Winterfell grew in the distance, and Prince Edric Dayne felt a gnawing itch inside the widening pit under his stomach. At least it was summer, or so the maesters told them before they'd left King's Landing. The seasons passed quickly, especially the last winter, to his relief. The only winter he'd ever known had been one filled with war, so he'd worried that with the seasons cycling, so would the events which had roiled his life around and about before. He'd found Sansa last winter, could he lose her this winter? Lords and knights either grovelled at his feet, or looked to him in fear as if he were the Stranger, because they knew, they just _knew_, that he was the most fearsome warrior and captain this side of the Narrow Sea, or Qarth and the Bone Mountains, even.

_Am I, though?_ Did he truly want to test it? Everything they'd done, every road they'd traveled, every man or woman they'd met with, highborn or low or in between, had been done for the sole purpose of avoiding yet another war. Not that Sansa doubted his prowess, if anything she was more confident of it than he was, because as far as he knew she'd never lain awake at night dreading the prospect of lining up his men for another battle, wondering in his mind whether his repute had been truly earned, or had fallen upon his shoulders only out of luck, through the same few flips of the coin that saw Daenerys etching her name in the maesters' scrolls by their side, rather than fall into the same infamous songs of insanity which had befallen her father and two late brothers.

But no, none of them wanted war, because even as victors they'd seen the sheer horrors of it all with their own eyes, and knew the cost it'd taken upon their souls. As for the late Tywin Lannister, Edric figured the old man had known his time was limited, so he'd spent the rest of his life dutifully rebuilding the reputation he'd began his career with, that of a careful caretaker of a peaceful and prosperous realm. He doubted the old man visited his last seat in Dragonstone more than four or five times in the meantime, nor did Prince Jaime much more than that.

"Think Tywin's ghost will return from the dead if we don't fulfill his dying betrothal wish," he whispered into the Queen's ear, pulling his horse next to hers. They both glanced back several lengths where the little Crown Princess followed, holding onto the reigns of her brown steed for dear life. Beside her rode Ser Brienne, cautiously whispering to Minisa, no doubt encouraging her to persist through the last hour before her royal entrance through Winterfell's gates.

"I'll tell the ghost what I told Lord Tywin by his deathbed," the Queen answered, "that I make no promises, but I'd approve it if Tytos is fit..._and_ if Minisa's inclined." She shrugged her shoulders skeptically, continuing to whisper so that their eldest daughter could not overhear them discussing of her future behind her back. "He's a bit too young for her anyway...Lyarra would be a better match for Tytos, age-wise."

Edric frowned. "I'm not too young for you?"

Squinting her nose, realizing that she'd lost this specific point in their debate, Sansa resorted to her last resort, reaching out and squeezing his arm affectionately. "_You're_ special, he's not. But you're right, the boy marrying Lyarra doesn't give Prince Tywin's line an heir to the throne, not without more incest further down the road."

"I liked the old man, to be honest," Edric said, peering behind them again, but this time towards the wheelhouse carrying their youngest daughter, Sansa's last child. "I've no urge to see his ghost anytime soon though. But I also don't want to see Minisa married unhappily either. Or Lyarra."

They said the Princess Lyarra Stark resembled her eldest uncle Robb Stark, so he'd take Sansa's word for it. Four childbirths had been enough for her, she'd said vehemently after giving birth to his second daughter nearly two and a half years after the Red Council, and one year before Bethany Blackwood bore Jaime Lannister's firstborn and heir. The child's name was more than obvious, Tytos being both the boy's great grandfather's name on his Lannister side, and grandfather's name on the mother's Blackwood side. Min would surely find the idea of marrying the child ridiculous, he could barely walk in a straight line last they'd seen of him, but fortunately for Edric, both his daughters were still many a long year away from thinking about marriages and betrothals at all. Even Sansa, her mind never strayed far from the preservation of their dynasty, had agreed that they'd try to keep all the politics of it all away from their children for some time, at least another year or two with Min.

The greetings went well enough. His first time meeting them as the Lord of Winterfell, Kendron Stark's unfamiliarity, or discomfort, at it all was obvious for all to witness, though his wife, a pleasant enough Karstark girl assumed the duties of hostess well enough for all their ample entourage to settle in. They'd sheered as much of Baelor's hair as they could have, Edric noticed, so that the boy would look as less of a dragon as possible. His cheeks were plump beside his purple eyes, no doubt they'd taken Sansa's letters to heart, feeding the stray prince as much as he could fit into his stomach each setting of the plates. A stranger would think this was just a mother ensuring that her child was well taken care of from afar, but Edric knew better.

_"Better that he's fat," she said, after he'd read several of her letters to Benjen Stark and remarked upon it, "so he looks the less like the Usurper and Viserys."_

With the Queen occupied, it fell upon him to bring his daughters down into the crypts of Winterfell. These were sacred grounds, reserved only for those with Stark blood, but who was going to tell him otherwise, the weak and gangly Lord Kendron? Besides, hadn't he done more for their family than any other outsider at this point, wasn't he the father to the future of their great house?

"Why don't you grow a beard like that," Min asked him, as they stood below the statue of King Eddard the Just, her blue eyes barely perceptible through the dim light of the candles. His left hand held his Crown Princess's hand, his right Lyarra's.

"Don't think your mother would like that," Edric mused, preferring not to admit to his daughter that he could grow little upon his face besides a few thin lines of almost transparent whiskers. "Besides, that's a beard fit for a king...and I'm no king."

"Mama tells you don't need a king, Min," Lyarra gladly told her sister, and Minisa nodded her head eagerly.

"She says I need to find a husband who will do _whatever_ I tell him to do," his Crown Princess agreed happily. "Just like you, papa."

"Your mother's smarter than me," he said. "We're all better off if we listen to her, always."

Staring at Eddard Stark's blank stone eyes, he wondered what Sansa's father would think of his daughter's choice of a husband, the man she'd give stewardship of Ice. It had taken some time, but they'd finally found the late King's remains in Pyke, and Sansa had seen to it they were returned to their proper resting place in the North, unlike the Usurper's whose rotten remains they'd dumped unceremoniously down some abandoned gold mine in the Westerlands. As to himself, Edric wondered whether these grim walls was to be his final resting place one day as well. If Sansa would prefer to be interred here, with her father, mother, and three departed brothers rather than inside some vault or mausoleum in Trystanen yet to be built, he supposed his bones would freeze through all eternity also.

Edric felt grateful that neither one of his daughters wondered the same thing of themselves. They were old enough to know about death, the concept of mortality, if not understand it completely, and perhaps he would feel more comfortable discussing the subject with them were it not for the fact that their very existences, as daughters of a Queen who had to fight nail and teeth for her crown, who had to slaughter more than half the realm's lords, meant that death would remain as constant a danger for them from the moment they were born. They face death, as much as any knight facing a battle, except the battle would last all their lives.

"Who would win," Min asked him curiously, "if you and King Eddard fought each other in a battle?"

"Your grandfather easily," Edric said gently, resisting the urge to laugh within the sanctified grounds. "King Eddard would beat me to Dorne and back."

Footsteps tapped slowly and eloquently towards their corner of the dark corridor.

"Mama!"

The Queen joined them. Each time he stood beside Sansa while she paid her respects to the statue of her father and brother, Edric could not help but forget the statues to regard solely from his eyes her beautiful features their entire time standing together. She looked so pure, so reverent, the closest resemblance, so he'd guess, to the innocent girl she had once been, before the world tore so much of it out of her. But not all of it, because his eyes were witnessing now what remained.

"How was Baelor," he asked later, while Sansa dressed for the feast to come. After two years spent in war, the Queen had become quite adept at dressing herself, so she had little need for handmaidens or ladies in waiting except for appearances' sake, and appearances mattered little in the North.

Sansa shrugged indifferently. "Quiet. He treats me like a stranger, to be honest."

To be honest, it was what they both preferred.

"Did you ask him about Bear Island?"

She shook her head. "He didn't say anything about it either, to me."

Lord Benjen had written them more than a year before, saying that Baelor had been pestering anyone and everyone within the walls of Winterfell that he wanted to visit Margaery Tyrell, the woman who had taken him in as her informal ward during the war. The Queen granted her son permission to see the woman, but the fact that Baelor chose not to speak of it to his own mother would seem to mean that, even at his young age, the boy instinctively didn't trust Sansa, not more than he did the Lady Margaery. He would not blame him, after all, if it weren't for all the troubling implications.

"I worry about them too," he agreed, thinking of his daughters, and how though Sansa would never admit it, not even to her husband, if a sudden sickness were to take the life of her firstborn one day, the Queen may shed tears, she may not, but she was sure to feel a not so insignificant sense of relief.

"It's not just Baelor," Sansa continued, standing up and pacing the room nervously, making it ever the more difficult for Edric to finish tying her straps. "Let him go to Bear Island, let Margaery finish the job raising him, though I wouldn't be surprised if she ends up marrying him out of spite just to get back at me. But I asked Maester Wolkan and Kendron and Alys today, all of them, about his temperament, his habits, in a way subtle enough, but not too subtle to be unnoticed. They all said to me...nothing out of the ordinary."

"That's not what your spies tell you?"

"Nothing," she fumed, "nothing about his tantrums, nothing about how he'd go days on end without speaking to anyone. If I can't trust my own family..."

It was not the first time she'd expressed these concerns to him. Ned Stark had trusted his beloved brother to raise Jon. They'd chosen instead a surly stranger, perhaps the most unfamiliar out of all her cousins. Except maybe Robin Arryn, ought he suggest Baelor be moved to the Vale as an alternative? Probably not, wary as Sansa was of the situation now, north of Moat Cailin was still for the best.

"Edric," she asked, her sudden change in tone catching his attention, changing from indignant to nervous while he was busy thinking. "Are you happy?"

"What?" He chortled and almost spit upon her back, before the words could even ring through his head. "Of course I am, what do you mean?"

"But really though," she turned, gripping both his shoulders to look him in the eye, and all he could think of was how ridiculous his wife would look if he let her leave the room with the back half of her gown unfinished and open. "Everything..., I mean, your life is so complicated, because of me, and all the politics..."

"I don't understand," he reacted, even as he began to understand and really think through her question. "Of course I'm happy..."

"You didn't have to worry about this," Sansa kept pressing, and he could almost wonder whether this was a trap, designed to draw out disloyalty like everything she did, like her Red Council of years before. "Constantly worrying about everything. Had you had your children with anyone else, Tally Tarly for example, you'd never lie sleepless at night, worrying about your daughter's inheritances and future because of some bastard boy in the far North."

What did that word really mean, anyway? _Happy_. He had a wife he loved, two daughters he loved, whom he doted on, and yes, like Sansa said, that he fretted constantly over. But would he prefer not having his family, certainly not, he'd take everything which came with it, whether it was for the better or the worse. Had he been happier during the war, or before, riding listlessly and endlessly without much purpose beside Beric and their men? As a child, when his parents still lived? The last matter was a well too deep, one he did not want to dig further into.

"I also wouldn't have my wife and Queen beside me," he assured her, "ready to solve any problem that vexes my mind." He squeezed her shoulders, before wrapping his fingers behind her neck to finish tying her dress. "Do you remember before the Battle of Joy, when we rode through the mountains and passes, when we made love in the springs?"

Feeling her muscles relaxing underneath his hands, he breathed a sigh of relief. This was why he hated coming north. Whatever Sansa's worries about Minisa's future, they were better contained the further they were away from Winterfell, and Baelor.

"I do," the Queen reminisced happily.

"But it wasn't as simple as we remember it now, was it? You didn't know I'd be good at war, hells, I didn't either. Yet we had all our battles still ahead of us, all of Rhaegar's and Tarly's armies to be defeated, and the stain of Arianne and Quentyn Martell's deaths upon our consciences."

There was no need to leave the precursors to the Red Council unnamed now, they'd both acknowledged the truth of what they'd done, what he'd done for her, a long time ago. That when Sansa first came to him, seeking him out inside his tent, it was not out of love, or not even lust, not entirely. Except he wouldn't have it any other way, and he'd certainly not trade the lives of the two dead Martells for it.

"But we got through it, didn't we," she replied, getting at his point. "And so we can recall those days so fondly now."

"One battle at a time's the most any man can handle," he whispered. "Let's get through ours tonight."

* * *

**Sansa**

Again she drifted asleep and then awake below the great Godswood of Winterfell. Blinking, opening her eyes and letting the vista of the unchanging leaves try and blind her with their vivid colors, she wondered whether her father had ever meditated here so as a child, or her aunt Lyanna. Did they feel the same dreams, hear the same voices as she did?

There was one picture that she could not banish from her mind. She'd been drawn to the small clearing ever since her first visit back to Winterfell after the war not out of obligations, or politics...but simply because she'd been drawn. Did she dream of the great tree on her ride north, forgetting it by morning but not entirely so through all the journey? Did the strange visions which eventually colored her mind in the minutes, perhaps hours, after she'd sat down beside its trunk, closing her eyes instinctively, had they visited her dreams beforehand, did they haunt her afterwards?

There were flashes of a tall young man with dark hair sitting on a chair with wheels, meditating as she did, similar to Rhaegar's, yet built differently, and she could never quite tell his face, though she could see the snow around him, the tracks left in it by his chair, and tell it was winter. _He's a Stark,_ she doesn't think, she _knows_, though she doesn't know how or why she knows.

A great battle by a river, not her battle, but she can see the captain of this one, a giant beast of a man with an antlered helmet, swinging a hammer that looked impossibly heavy, as large as its wielder's head. Robert Baratheon, she could only guess, and though she strained the eyes inside her mind to for a glimpse of her father behind the Young Stag, that face never came to her. Neither did Rhaegar's, thankfully.

Then there were stranger visions still. An impossibly old and bearded man inside what looked to be a dark cave of some sort, except he was surrounded, covered, by what looked to be the exposed roots of a tree, as if the roots were themselves feeding upon his withered frame to nourish what lay above. A brood of direwolf pups, sometimes she counted five, sometimes six, but they disappeared as quickly as they appeared, vanishing like a summer snowstorm. There were other storms too, and battles, sometimes in the day, other times at night, always in the snow. Then, very occasionally, the most fearsome nightmare she could imagine, those unnatural blue eyes, not blue like hers or Edric's but...inhuman, that was the only word she could find to describe them. Not alive. When she saw those eyes, she heard the crackling of ice all around her.

There was magic in the Gods of the North, true magic, she was becoming more and more convinced of this now. Just as there had been real magic in what she'd seen in the eyes of the eyes of the Red Priestess, whom she'd invited, invited by her own hands, to come seek Rhaegar and unwittingly drive the man into his final madness. Sansa could not recall when she remembered those visions again, and realized the sheer truth she'd seen in the fire inside the woman's eyes...a sword falling into the ocean, which she knew now had been Dawn, cast out by Edric for her sake. Crows covering the sky, as had been when she'd invited Tywin Lannister and the Wolf's Watch south so as to watch over all the seven kingdoms, not just the Wall of her ancestors. She wondered what else she could have failed to discern in the woman's eyes, or remember. Her husband, her daughters, their battles? Their futures? Queen Minisa, sitting proudly upon the Iron Throne? Or dead, her throat cut by Rhaegar's last child.

Then there remained what she did remember, but knew she'd yet to see with her own eyes yet. Two goblets of wine, she _knew_ it was wine, perched precariously on a balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay on a moonlit night. It was the Red Keep, she'd recognized then, and so thought now too. But how, or _why_, Sansa could not begin to interpret, why the Red Woman had shown her that particular still scene, and why it hadn't happened yet. She'd spent little time in the capital since the war, whatever nights she had in the castle lodged up inside the White Sword Tower. Of Maegor's Holdfast, where they'd killed Trystane and their daughter, or Tywin's Tower of the Hand, where Viserys slaughtered her brothers, she'd not stepped foot in at all. Otherwise, Lord Thoros of Duskendale was kind enough to open his castle to their family, when they weren't travelling the realm.

"Thought I'd find you out here."

Her husband looked worse for wear, as much as she did, Sansa supposed. Their battlefield the last night had been the Great Hall of Winterfell, their combatants all the strangers they had to tolerate for the entirety of the night. Baelor had sat at the table adjourning theirs at the head. She positioned Edric between them, but neither one of them seemed to have any words to exchange with the boy at all. She did speak to the two arrivals from Castle Black however, who sat beyond her son, so that when they conversed, it felt all the more like she was deliberately spurning Baelor, an accusation which would not be entirely untrue.

_"I'm sorry about your father," the Queen had said to Tyrion. "I would've sent a raven north, so you could have seen him one last time, but the sickness came quickly."_

_"It's no worry," the Half Man answered, and she noticed he was clad fully in the black robes of the Watch now, even when he hadn't been during the Red Council. "I doubt he would have wanted me there anyway."_

_She would have rebutted Tyrion, except it did not escape her notice that Prince Tywin never spoke once of his youngest son, not to her anyway. The Queen would have liked to invite her old advisor south, restore him a place on the table of the Small Council, but Tyrion seemed unwilling to give her even the slightest opening._

"The girls," she asked Edric.

"With Lady Alys," he answered. "Don't worry, Lord Tyrion is keeping to Baelor in the library."

"Didn't know he was one for books." Though to be fair, a penchant for reading was the least of what she did, or rather didn't know, about her son.

_"You should come south," she had said to Jon, hoping that Tyrion could take her hint as well. "You'd like Lord Commander Davos, he's a good man, the Watch in good hands with him."_

_Tyrion did raise his head briefly at the mention. "He was Stannis Baratheon's man once, wasn't he?"_

Sansa had nodded. They all knew that Tyrion's older brother had little urge to succeed his father leading the Wolf's Watch, not to mention an appointment as Hand to the Queen. Davos Seaworth had served her loyally during the War of Ice and Fire, having joined with the last of the Marcher lords before the Battle of Goatshorn Bend. Having heard of his youth spent at sea, she'd given him the lordship over the Arbor after the incident with the Redwynes, appointing him Master of Ships not long after, and it did not take long for her to recognize in him both his talents, as well as a heart closer to that she'd remembered of her father's, compared to most other men.

Daenerys would serve as her Hand one day, they both knew this, but Lord Davos was older, so she'd appointed him her first successor to Tywin Lannister, while his body and his wits remained vibrant. After Davos, she figured the leadership of the Wolf's Watch could be split from that of the Hand. Perhaps she could give command of the former to Arya, though Sansa understood that handing over the reigns of thousands of men trained for battle to a woman would be difficult, no matter how deserving she was of it.

_"There's Edd Tollett," Jon had suggested the last night, deeper into the feast, after they'd all drank several jugs of wine. Jon out of merriment perhaps, a breath of fresh air outside of Castle Black. She and Edric, more likely out of discomfort at Baelor's presence. Tyrion too, though whatever discomforts he felt, he kept to himself. "I'm serious," he continued insisting through the night. "You just have to meet him...well, he doesn't make a great first impression, but there's something to the man, I swear by all the Gods!"_

Edric's strong arms held her by the Godswood, and she contented herself to be held, to allow herself to feel weak for a brief respite.

"How long before you have to attend court?"

"I should be there by now," the Queen answered, looking out the garden towards the castle walls. Having presided over thousands of supplicants all over the realm by now, most of it was drudgery, sometimes their stories lit fires inside her blood, sometimes she could feel both the ice and fire inside her heart as she delivered her justice, staring into the eyes of those she helped, and those she condemned, in both cases smiling of satisfaction, each of a different shade. "Perhaps we can cut it short this first day."

Edric looked at her puzzled. It was not like her to cut short her duties, especially not in the North.

"The days are long," she continued. "There's these spectacular waterfalls out in the far hills, father told me of them once. I thought we could ride out there, try and find them."

"I'd like that." He sounded happy. She believed him from the day before, when he'd insisted that he was entirely content with their life together. Sansa hoped this ride would make him happy as well. But she wasn't doing this just for Edric.

"We should do this more, take more time for ourselves."

Her husband nodded, agreeing, because they both knew that the truest magic was what time they'd carved from the Gods for themselves already.


	42. Epilogue II-A: Death to the Queen

**Minisa - Year 319**

Much as her mother hated the castle, the Crown Princess of the Seven Kingdoms had always found herself fascinated by the tall spires of the stone fortress forged from the breath of the dragons. The grandness of the castle always struck deep in her lungs with each visit, as did the hollowness inside, almost of a vapid sort, because for all its grandeur, the Red Keep was indeed an often empty testament and memorial to a dead dynasty. Yet the future Minisa I Stark could not help herself, though the actual Iron Throne held little appeal to her imagination, less than the high and painted windows and perfectly arched ceilings surrounding the magnificent room, because the seat of burnt swords was hers, had always been meant for her, so was the building that housed it, a castle forever destined to elude her, which persisted in holding sway inside her mind.

It seemed appropriate that the castle built by dragons was now mostly inhabited by a dragon herself. Princess Daenerys, her mother's Hand, sometimes had the Keep all to her own, though she spent just as much time in Duskendale whenever the Queen kept her court there. Many of the other lords would take similar residence in the smaller castle to the northeast of King's Landing, so that Lord Thoros's manse may well have been the most dense and bustling abode in all the realm whenever her family maintained their stay there, before all the court emptying and scurrying back to King's Landing or elsewhere whenever her mother decided to take their family across the realm once more. And while Minisa did wonder what it would be like to live all her life in one place, one royal castle, she did not worry too much about the life she'd never live, because her childhood had been the only one she'd known, and she was grateful for every person she'd met along the way, every chance she'd had to learn at the steps of her mother.

But given the opportunity to roam the hallways of the Red Keep, she would indulge herself, wandering the pretty gardens and watching the waves of the Narrow Sea from practically every corner and vantage point she could find along the endless high walls. This time she had days of it, their procession traveling through King's Landing on the way up the Blackwater to Trystanen. Their new palace would be ready within years, certainly long built and lived in by the time she would begin her reign. For now, the outskirts of the growing city was to be the site of a grand tourney, to herald the start of a new Spring after a thankfully short winter, the second one marking her young life, not counting the one she'd been born in, of course.

Time in the capital could not be wasted. If her mother had to live out half a fortnight in the Red Keep, then she'd make them useful, grand ceremonies in the Throne Room, blessings of the smallfolk given by the High Septon, knightings and vows of the Wolf's Watch overseen by the Queen herself and so forth. The Crown Princess's presence had been required for much of it, and Minisa was happy to play the part she'd been born to play, she'd long learnt how to hide the yawning inside her heart in such moments. But the overall energy of the gatherings had dwindled by this last day, with many of the lords already departing for the tourney, but the royal family had one more night in the capital, and Minisa spent her last full day in the Keep roaming freely about.

Lyarra had her lessons on the harp. She was talented, Minisa loved listening to her little sister strum her beautiful chords. They'd given her the same lessons when she was a child as well, but her clumsy fingers persisted in disappointing everyone, so her mother decided her time was better spent attending more Small Council meetings instead. But even the Queen needed a rest, that was why they'd gone riding together in the Kingswood south of the river, her parents, so it felt like she had the castle all to herself.

So why was she wasting it here, perched beside her mother's throne, small and delicate fingers daring to feel along the edges of the ancient and rather blunt swords she would sit upon one day? Turning, she dragged her skirt carefully down the steps before hearing a pattering of footsteps down one of the corridors to her right.

"Baelor?"

The young man with short silver hair stumbled and nearly fell trying to escape her attentions. Minisa did not know her half brother had already arrived, she'd thought her mother wanted him to skip the capital altogether and ride straight for Trystanen instead.

"Apologies, Your Grace," he mumbled, looking away from her. He never looked her in her eyes, she'd noticed from a young age, and if Minisa were to guess now, she'd think he was about to spring as quickly away from her as his feet could possibly carry him.

"Wait!"

He hesitated, but was too slow to run, or too obedient.

"What are you doing here?" She asked him this, trying not to sound too imperious, to avoid projecting any authority towards her older brother, even though it was her birthright.

_"Diplomacy," her mother's words rang inside her ears. "Those you don't trust, whom you might even fear, you wear for them the thickest armors of courtesy you can..."_

"Lord Glover wanted to pay his respects to Her Grace. I had no choice in the matter." His soft voice wavered, especially when he spoke of his mother's title. Though the bottom of his face remained round, Baelor looked much skinnier than even the last time she'd seen him, was it almost a year and a half now? Take away his hair and his eyes, everything which made him a _Targaryen_, and not like the kind of Princess Dany, she'd wonder whether her half brother would resemble her uncle Tommen when he'd been a similar age.

"Well mother's out riding," Minisa replied, feeling horribly self conscious all of a sudden, unable to help her nervousness despite the fact that she was the heir, and Baelor...well, he wasn't even a Prince, was he really? "She should return later tonight though, if you and Lord Glover wish to see her."

Mother had fretted over the letter written by Robett Glover, asking to escort his ward to the tourney. She'd wondered, to her daughters, to her husband, whether the words were his, or Baelor's, who insisted on stepping foot in the capital, how strongly, and why? But reluctantly the Queen had signed her approval, more out of guilt, Minisa would guess, than any special charity, because Baelor always made her mother feel guilt and bring her mood down, and Minisa could not help but hate the silver haired stranger for that.

_It's not his fault, that his father was a monster._

_It's not my fault either, and it shouldn't be my problem. Or mother's._

"Very well," he said, lowering his head to leave her once more.

"Wait," she couldn't help but call out again, and he stopped himself again, even more reluctant than before. "Why are you here?" She pointed at the ornate chambers, at the Iron Throne. "Here."

He did not answer her. Instead, apparently taking her movements as permission, his curious eyes roamed the room that their mother had decided to deny him likely before he'd even been born, which she'd fought a war and many great battles to forever deny him from.

"Have you never seen the Iron Throne before," she couldn't help but ask dumbly, even though the answer was obvious.

"Never been south of Moat Cailin before this journey," Baelor answered exactly as she'd expected him to. His voice was light, wispy, as if the sound itself wished to flee her presence.

"Well," she said, walking back towards the throne, knowingly allowing the older boy to follow in her footsteps, "it's not what most people imagine. They'd never say it to mother's face, or mine, but I've heard them whispering before many times..._'I thought it'd be bigger, I thought the swords would be sharper, I thought there'd be more swords.'_ But nope," she shook her head, "it's just this damned thing right here. A rusty old chair. Smells odd too, unless mother just sat in it, then her perfume lingers for a day or two..."

She noticed that he'd stopped listening to her babble, and she _had_ been babbling, but who could blame her uneasiness at this most unexpected reunion. Instead his eyes found themselves cast reverently at the chair, in a worshipful way she'd never beheld the seat before. He couldn't help himself, she thought, yet the very action would be enough to terrify her mother. Herself, she _should_ be afraid, yet she'd always heard them say, if not of her, then of all the youth, that the young were too dumb to understand fear.

An impulse grabbed at her throat. "Have you ever thought about sitting on the throne yourself?"

So her mother would accuse her of being too fearless, or reckless, whichever word she'd choose, but Minisa, like her half brother, could not help herself in sight of the Iron Throne. Was there some kind of disease which emanated from the faded steel, a long dead curse from the swords of those who had to die for a conqueror's most tangible of legacies, destined to push towards insanity all who came within close proximity of it?

And yet he continued to follow her lead, whether through foot or word. He remained much taller than her, Minisa noticed. She was taller than most girls, almost as tall as her mother..._their_ mother, she corrected herself, and father assured her she might keep growing. Yet Baelor's stature stood impossibly too tall for her to catch, and Minisa wondered whether she should have pressed her mother in denying their request for Baelor to come south, for how many of the lords would see him towering above her eyes, and see in the young dragon a King, a more deserving heir than herself, if only for the sake of his appearance?

"What would you do," he asked her, after she'd lost count of how long they had both stared at the Throne in silence together, brother and sister, stranger and stranger, side by side. "What would you do, once you're the Queen?"

"Music," she blurted out without a pause._ Stupid girl,_ out of everything she could have said, _music_? "I mean, everything my mother's done, everything she's accomplished, I'll preserve her legacy, see that the people are fed, that they're content, protect the weak..."

But it was too late, and she could not take back her foolishness.

"And the music," he asked her, openly skeptical, as if he had any right to tease her, as if she'd suddenly wilted from a vaunted heir to the realm back to a little girl in his eyes, if he'd ever held any respect for her position in the first place.

'Well, people like music," she said, mind staggering. "I like music. I'll call into Trystanen all the greatest singers and minstrels and harpists in all the world, even as far as Astapor or Qarth. They'll travel the land, sing their songs, play their music, and entrance everyone, lords and Wolf's Watch alike, and the people too. I want my people to be happy. They'll be well fed, they'll have the justice of the Crown behind them, same as now...and they'll have music too. Plays, mummers, painters, sculptors..."

If he could laugh at her without committing treason, he would have, and Minisa resisted the urge to ball her hands up into fists. How could she describe with words to this frustrating and arrogant young man that she_ already knew_ how to be a Queen, she'd sat beside her mother judging pleas from commoner to highborns all her life, she'd sat in more Small Council meetings than he could count...that she _understood_ concepts like power, and justice, and mercy, in ways that transcended any simple words her tongue could describe? How many long and tedious disputes between neighboring lords and territories did he ever sit through? Had he ever had to listen to the opposing testimonies of a lord accused of abusing his people, and the Watch warden accused of corruption, and act the judge when no answer was obvious?

"What would you do," she challenged him. Would he take her bait? It seemed that Baelor was about to launch into a tirade of his own, but then she watched as he almost literally bit his tongue, before meeting her eyes for the first time.

"Her Grace's last Hand couldn't even read until he was already an old man."

"So," Minisa asked. "What does that matter? Lord Davos was a good man and a great Hand, he was decent and kind and he did well for the people. So what if he couldn't read some dumb book written by some old fart hundreds of years ago?"

"It makes him stupid, that's what it does." Spit flew out of his mouth when he spoke. "The country is ruled by what, exiled peasants and bastards and common criminals?"

"Not rapists," Minisa challenged him. "Mother had Prince Tywin kill them all before the Watch was sent into the villages."

"Yes, great, because rapers have always been the greatest threat to the seven kingdoms," Baelor said dismissively.

"What is it then?"

She would regret their eye contact now, for the sheer intensity of their encounter. Then he looked away, before he replied to her.

"Stupidity."

"Stupidity?" The Crown Princess turned, and pressed her body close and almost against the older boy, standing on the tips of her toes to try and loom over his brow. "Are you accusing Queen Sansa of stupidity, is that what you're saying?" _ Or me?_

He backed away. As he should, as was her right, but Minisa knew that his heart had relented not an inch.

"Not Her Grace. But the people she's given her country to..."

"Careful, brother..."

"I am your brother, aren't I?"

_Please don't speak anymore, a part of her mind pleaded._

_Please tell me everything, tell me all your deepest secrets, tell me all your most shameful desires, so that I can tell mother and have you executed on the spot when she returns._

"Then tell me," she insisted quietly. "So long as your words do not comprise treason, I won't say more of it to my mother, it'll be our secret."

He grinned at her, how dare he? He would relent, Minisa knew, and she also realized that she'd given him the opportunity to dare her in breaking her sacred word by treading his line as closely as possible. "Every lord and every highborn, every man who wishes to even be a hedge knight, they ought to study the same books and scrolls a maester does, to act reasonably and properly and politely, even the northern beasts. The realm ought belong to the learned, the wise. Every Small Council ought have more maesters, or men who'd think like them. Who wouldn't make decisions because of emotions, but because it's the smartest decision to make."

"Like Lord Tyrion?" Baelor nodded at the mention of the man who'd refused her mother's call in order to see to his education in the North. "You're right," she couldn't help but agree with him, "why should the wisdom of the Citadel be kept to just the maesters? Lords and ladies should read more, I agree with you. And the Wardens of the Wolf's Watch would be better served..."

She stopped speaking when she saw that he was shaking his head fervently. "What don't you approve?"

"It'd be wasted on the lowborn."

"Why," she insisted.

"Their blood's poor, inferior. They're base creatures, closer to wolves or lions than man."

_What do you know of the common people, when you've lived in castles all your life, when you've never looked into the eyes of a dying child, and seen the sadness of an impoverished mother's eyes, whether in Flea Bottom, or the Red Keep, or a village with no name somewhere in the endless hills of the Westerlands, when you haven't met weak men missing an arm or legs because they'd lost it fighting for your birthright before you were even born?_

"What would you have in their place then?"

Minisa wondered if Baelor could discern that she'd donned her mask now, the mask her mother had taught her from the youngest age. To pretend to listen, to pretend to even agree, to keep her own emotions and reactions hidden. Then, she'd tell her mother, and by all the Gods mother would never allow Baelor anywhere south of Castle Black again.

"The Council of Trystanen was a mummer's farce..."

"It was an open display of treason," she began instinctively, before letting her diplomatic reactions take hold. "But I agree with you...brother, not everyone who died there deserved to die."

Though his eyes remained cast towards the floor, she could tell from the intensity of his downwards stare that he had fallen for her ruse.

"Words shouldn't count as treason. Mere thoughts shouldn't either, nor should beliefs. Men should be allowed to say what they believe, so long as they don't act on it the worst of it, if they don't raise swords and rally their banners in rebellion, then there's nothing wrong, there's ought be no crime in belief...by itself."

"You're right," she agreed, as part of her act, but also because Baelor _was_ right. But then, her half brother did not know their mother at all, Baelor had never seen the spirited arguments and debates she'd had with her advisors, her Small Council, all the lords whose keeps they'd shared and lands they'd traveled through. It was not belief or words the Queen objected to, but disloyalty, but how could Baelor see that, having never felt the breath of treason breathing against his neck. Neither had she really, Minisa acknowledged, but she'd heard enough stories of it from her parents to feel like she'd lived through the same ordeals herself.

"People should be allowed to voice their ideas," she said, _except mother allows that, so long as she trusts them_, "without fearing for their heads. But what's to stop them, if they're wrong, but they believe themselves right? And if they're so convinced, and they have ten thousand men at their command..."

"But other lords would have men too," Baelor countered. He was scratching at his own skin now, visibly agitated or inspired, Minisa could not tell. "But if all the lords are learned, they'd have less _bad_ ideas. And if they could all discuss things together, in one place...any dumb, misplaced ideas by a misguided few would be countered by the vast and gathered wisdom of the many others who'd think rightly, because they'd all be learned, _educated_. In the end, I believe the truest wisdom speaks for itself, that the right would always prevail, and win."

He did not speak like a northman, it only dawned to her now. His lilting and graceful voice, his throat an eloquent instrument which sounded more like a learned man from the Westerlands...the same slow, steady, and careful cadences Minisa remembered of Prince Tywin...except Baelor had never met the old lion, had he? The Small Lion though, that was another matter indeed.

"It depends on what the books say, doesn't it?" She'd heard enough, yet there was still more to probe at what her half brother truly believed in his heart. "What if some maester's were to write a book at this very moment, saying that you ought to sit on the Iron Throne instead of me? That it ought remain House Targaryen instead of House Stark which rules the seven kingdoms? Or hells, if the realm ought be broken back up into petty kings and queens again? What if all the maesters agree on that, and send their books through all the realm for the lords and ladies to read, so that each petty lord decides he can name himself a king, and make war and chaos upon all the realm?"

"Why must it be war or chaos?" He responded so quickly that Minisa knew there was no pretense now, that her would be usurper was speaking through his sincerest heart. "House Stark, House Targaryen, House Tully or Glover or Martell, why must it come to war? I don't wish to speak treason, Your Grace...but what if the learned men of the realm could all come together, and then agree...in peace, who's_ the best person_ to sit on the Throne? Not a family, not a house, but one wise man, the wisest and best fit man at each Council to lead the country? And because he is wise, so he trusts in the counsel of other wise men...why ought a Small Council remain small enough to be counted upon one hand? Why ought not every wise and learned lord be allowed to counsel their king, why ought they not gather and share their wisdom and all become better because they can learn from each other?"

_Because men are more selfish than they are wise. Because no book of wisdom can tell you when to know justice for a traitor, or mercy for the deserving._

Then, the realization came to her, the same way a wolf does not need to be taught the urge to kill, to run, to fight.

_He's learned to wear his masks too._

_He hates me. He hates my mother, my father, my sister. He hates everything about us, everything we've built, everything we're going to build, he'll destroy it all, if he could._

Her courtesy still adorning her face, Minisa smiled politely at her half brother. "Perhaps I'll ask you to lead this council of wise men to advise me when I'm Queen, Baelor."

Not Prince, not Lord, or brother, just Baelor.

_Or perhaps I'll tell mother to watch you during the Tourney, one wrong move and you'll be sent to live with the wildlings far beyond the Wall._

* * *

**Sansa - Year 326**

It had taken her some time to decide what to do with the Red Keep. Now that the palaces at Trystanen, if still far from complete, were very much passable enough to be lived in by a Queen and her court, it was time to put one last end to King's Landing's place at the center of her country. The first wagon loads of furnishings, statues, paintings, priceless antiques and treasures had departed the castle several days before. It took the workers some time to dislodge the actual Iron Throne, then carry it down all the steps for its royal procession up the Blackwater, but the Queen would not accompany her throne this time around.

Sipping a small glass of wine, she sat on a wide veranda at the top of the White Sword Tower, overlooking the expanses of the shimmering waters below. The spring day had been mild enough, yet at night she still had to wear a dress with sleeves covering her arms so as to remain comfortable while she lost herself in her memories, some good, some bad. In the end the Queen had decided on a compromise, rather than destroying the castle entirely, she'd have them place the barrels of wildfire in the two highest towers, leaving what remained for the people of King's Landing. She would give them the castle whole, except Sansa could never forget that these were the same people, the same ilks, at the very least, who had killed her mother.

Somewhere across from her in the Hand's tower was Daenerys. They would be the last to leave the city the next morning. Edric found himself busy somewhere down in the armory, scouring for any leftover blades they may have missed in the intervening days. With most of her Queensguard already on the march, guarding the royal treasures rather than the Queen for once, they would spend this last night inside the chambers of the Lord Commander, rather than sleep in the room they usually resided in several floors below. From this highest perch in the tower, Sansa thought she could discern several islands in the far bay that she'd never before seen, not that she could remember, anyhow.

Steps pattered from inside her chambers for this last night. "Edric," she asked, craning her head forward, before seeing a much smaller shadow cast upon the dimly lit floor. "Lord Tyrion," she remarked with some surprise. "I'd thought you'd left with your sister and Lady Jeyne."

She was more surprised that the Half Man had come to say his farewells to the Red Keep in the first place. It had been many years now since her former Master of Laws chose to end his self imposed exile in the North, travelling through all the realm for more than a year before settling as his brother's occasional castellan on Dragonstone, though not without frequent trips back north into what appeared to be his newly adopted homeland. But it would seem home finally called to the greying dwarf, and so Daenerys had been occupied the last few days arranging for Tyrion's return to Casterly Rock, and how exactly he was to advise his young nephew Lord Lyonel in running the Westerlands while his mother helped run the country.

"A bit too royal for me," Tyrion said with a laugh. One of his hands carried the jug of wine she'd left in her room, the other a glass of his own that he'd apparently helped himself to already. Seeing that her glass was almost empty, he nudged his head at it, and Sansa extended her arm forward. "Besides, I'm not going to Trystanen after this."

Both her daughters were travelling with Jeyne and the penultimate procession. Sansa thought it was important especially for Minisa to make a grand entrance to the new palace, before even the Queen herself, because it was her daughter's position as the true heir which needed to be established now, not her own.

"Where are you going then," Sansa asked, taking her goblet back as Tyrion set the jug onto the small table in front of her. "Not Casterly Rock either?"

"Not immediately. Back to Dragonstone first, gather my belongings, my life." When he spoke, the very tips of his grey whispers seemed to sparkle under the moonlight.

"Dragonstone," Sansa said, musing the thought. Standing up, she walked over towards the railing, fancying that she could maybe see the island from this high perch newly discovered to her. "It was good seeing you, I wish you'd come to court more often."

Did she really mean the words? The fact that the Half Man had persisted in abstaining himself from her court for so long was ample cause for suspicion, though Sansa could only guess at myriad reasons for his behavior within his labyrinthine mind. There was the fact that he'd spent so much of his time north mentoring her son as well, from Winterfell to Deepwood Motte and White Harbor. But their time together was honest and harmless, so most of her spies told her, and Sansa supposed that if anyone were to tutor her cast away son, there were few better choices than Tyrion Lannister.

"Perhaps I may," Tyrion replied with what appeared to be a wink out of the corner of her eye. He took a sip of his wine, then set the goblet on the veranda next to her own. Then it all came to her.

_Two glasses of wine. A full moon, overlooking Blackwater Bay._

With the quickness of a cat, her fingers left the stem of her goblet, and she drew away from the dwarf, facing him suspiciously, so she could see all of his body, so that no motion of his was hidden to her.

"What did you do to Edric," she asked carefully, calmly reaching one hand deep into her robes, pretending to adjust her dress by her hips.

"I'm sorry, Sansa," the dwarf said in a regretful tone, so as to indicate that they both knew the deadly game they were playing now. "I won't say your husband doesn't deserve...what's about to happen...what's already happened, probably. But he deserves it a lot less than most of them, I mean that."

"Why," she asked him first, though she already knew the answer. "All this for Baelor?" Then the panic set in. "My girls, what have you done to them?"

"Nothing. They'll be protected, I assure you." She saw that his hand was tucked firmly inside his robes as well. So he'd been ready too, in case whatever poison he'd poured into the wine failed. Had she already drank the potion unknowingly? Sansa did not think so, her lips and tongue felt dry.

He saw her staring at the jug of deadly amber. "It'll be painless, I assure you. I beg of you, Your Grace, _please_ drink the wine. It'd be the better way to go." _It's far better than you deserve,_ she imagined his eyes said to her, though she could not tell, not with his face shaded from the full moon behind him. From his sleeves he withdrew a small knife.

"Do you think he'd really be better than his father, or the Mad King?" Was she pleading with him, because she wanted to preserve her own life? Or did she actually care about his motives, how and _why_ his long line of thinking through the nearly thirty years she'd known him lead the man into joining his brother in regicide?

"It won't matter," he shook his head.

"What do you mean?"

"You weren't a bad Queen, Your Grace. Your reign may have began with tyranny, but overall...I do believe firmly that you've...that many good deeds have been made in your era..."

As if her era were already complete and consigned to the books.

"...and Minisa is a nice young woman."

"But she's not a man, that's why you'll destroy the name your father worked tirelessly to restore the last years of his life?"

She was taunting him, and he was too clever to fall for it. Nevertheless, he blinked, before continuing indefatigably.

"Because she's _your_ daughter," he said accusingly. "Because she's learned too much from her mother already, because she's beyond help." Pointing the knife now at her, the small man took several wide steps in her direction. "Perhaps she'll make a good Queen, after you, what with her bringing together all seven kingdoms with music and the such. But what if she isn't? What if _her_ son or daughter becomes a worse tyrant than Maegor or the Mad King?"

"She's not a Targaryen. Baelor is."

And _music?_ What in all the Gods' names was the old dwarf talking about?

"She has this monstrosity you created with my father, and all who'd follow after her. Baelor won't."

"Is that what he promised you," Sansa scoffed. Just what exactly had transpired all these years between these two men in the north right under her nose, just because she once trusted Tyrion, and if that feeling waned over the years, she'd nevertheless retained enough gratitude for ancient deeds to not have pressed him too far over the years, giving him a free hand to plant the seeds of his treason until this fateful night of his choosing. "That he'll be wise, that he'll kind and gentle to all the people, because that's exactly what a young King Aerys would have promised you too, because Maelys the Monstrous would have thought his title undeserved as well."

"No," Tyrion replied, his eyes never wavering. "But Baelor is powerless. For him to wear a crown, for him to overpower your private army, he'll need the support of nearly all the lords of the realm."

"You're going to let the lords steal the power of the crown," Sansa realized. Despite the desperate situation, the lunacy she was hearing, she couldn't help but break out in the most bitter of laughters. "Are you too blind to appreciate the irony? Your father died as a champion of the people..."

"Only because the nobility cast him out," he said neutrally, allowing no emotions within his voice when speaking of the old lion, "all the great lords, all the great alliances he forged in his day, they all forgot about him. That was his revenge, to hold at last power back over them, regardless of what instrument he wielded. But it won't be the same as before, I promise you. You had the right idea, calling all the lords together for the vote. Perhaps my father had been of the right mind when he'd been younger too. The dragons are dead, extinct. The cities of the east have no kings or queens, yet they thrive all the same. Why should the lords not have the power to decide the crown, the heir, a dynasty which is to rule over them? Why should they not have the power to decide on other matters, after all they know their lands better than..."

"Better than me? Better than Minisa?"

_He has gone mad, madder than Aerys. Yet, he thinks himself perfectly sane_...except what frightened her was that while Aerys's madness was obvious to all, how many scorned heirs may hear his words and wish to believe in them greater wisdom than the man deserved?

"You spent your time with the people, understanding them, knowing them..._using_ them. Yet I applaud you for that. But your successors may not be so kind, yet they'd still hold the reigns of the Wolf's Watch, even the fools. As for the vicious, if they learn how to play with the mob the same way as you..."

It looked like every bone within his small frame was shuddering.

"It'll be chaos." Sansa couldn't believe she was still arguing with him. Or that he her, was he trying to convince her as well, was he hesitating, did he think Queenslaying an easier task thought than achieved?

"Better a weak chaos than a strong and unstoppable tyrant."

"The realm's at peace," she said, tightening her grip on her own knife tucked within her belt. She hadn't traveled without a weapon on her person since before the war, so much so that Sansa wondered how easily she could've even forgotten about this last chance not just to save her life, but that of her daughter's. "How many people need to die for your insane vision to take hold, Lord Tyrion?"

"They don't have to die..."

Of course that was what he thought. Of course he'd think it mercy to take her daughters hostage, leave them at the mercies of the lords, sons and daughters, brothers and widows of the men slaughtered at the Red Council.

Without another thought she pulled out her small blade and concentrated as deeply as she could in hurling it with as much strength at her would be assassin as she could muster. Tyrion made for a small target, and rather than watch him react, she flung herself against the wall, rightly, because he'd thrown his knife at her as well. The empty clang it made against the floor meant that he'd missed. Ignoring the blinding pain, having crashed the crown of her head against the wall, she rose, and picked up her assailant's knife before Tyrion could reach it again. But it didn't matter. Her blade had struck true, having lodged itself in the small man's shoulder. He looked stunned at it, and then her, and without giving him another chance to reach for any of the weapons sheathed, she flung her own body this time at him, feeling the sickening pressure of the knife as it pressed through the layers of his vests to penetrate his chest.

"I'm sorry, Tyrion." Sansa found that she was crying, looking into the dying man's eyes. There was no anger in them, only sadness, disappointment that he'd failed, though his failures began long before this night, they both knew. "It gives me no pleasure to do this."

Pulling out the blade in his shoulder, she pulled aside his long beard and she pressed it at his neck, holding his convulsing body inside her arms.

"It would've given me no pleasure to kill you either," Tyrion's voice struggled to tell her.

"It's over now." She should have made more of an effort to win him over, she scolded herself now. Surely had Tyrion come to court earlier, had he ridden alongside herself or Daenerys or Arya he would've seen that their system _worked_, that there'd been no need to overthrow it. Why didn't she? Was it because she'd forgotten about her first ally, after all the new allies she'd met and gained during the war? "You could've served me well, same as before," she whispered to the ghosts of the night. "I wish I would've known better, tried more, I wish it never came to this."

"It's not over," a raspy, dying voice croaked to her. When he spoke, blood trickled down one side of his mouth and onto her cream colored dress. "You think I'm your only enemy? You don't think Jon disapproves of how you've treated his _brother_? Think about all the enemies you've made, Sansa. Your High Septon Renly, the Umbers, the..."

Then his eyes rolled over, and Sansa dropped the knife, not needing to inflict one last wound upon the man.

"Fuck," she screamed, her eyes squinted shut, mourning Tyrion's death, blaming herself. And Edric, where was he, what did Tyrion mean by that? Their daughters, were they already in danger?

Dropping the body, the Queen ran away from the veranda and into her chambers. Hearing desperate footsteps, she gripped her knife again, only to find a bloody and bruised but alive husband running to her. They hugged each other tightly, knowing how close it had been for them both.

"I thought you were dead," Edric muttered into her neck.

"I thought you were," she gasped. Husband and wife both found themselves out of breath.

He shrugged, and glanced down at his swords. Blood probably covered the blades inside their sheaths, she doubted that he would have bothered to clean them before running up the tower to find her. "They were a pain, but they never stood a chance."

What remaining guards in the castle were alerted, but it appeared that, aside from Edric's assasins, the Half Man had acted alone. Riders were sent west to warn their daughters of any enemy ambush, but by the time they'd returned to their chambers, where Tyrion Lannister's body still lay along the outside balcony, beginning its first stages of rot, Sansa found her mind much more calmed than before.

He'd been bluffing, she told herself. There'd been only four ruffians from Flea Bottom who'd attacked Edric, and Sansa doubted the conspirators had some great army lying in wait to entrap Minisa or act otherwise against them, or she would've heard about it from her spies long before. No, he wanted to scare her, to make her think it was already hopeless, so as to persuade her to take the sweet escape he'd so generously offered her.

The Queen did not doubt that a few most discrete arrangements had been made, but she was also confident that no one would dare act so long as the Queen lived, and in her mind a readiness to repeat the memories of her Red Council. As to Jon, or Renly, or whomever else he'd accused, she'd have them looked into, followed and reported upon, but Sansa guessed, she hoped, really, that the accusations were merely the efforts of a dying man to sow what little disarray he still could against a regime he knew he'd failed to destroy.

"What are we going to do with him," Edric asked, pointing respectfully at the body for her sake, and Sansa knew he wasn't asking her how to dispose of it.

"Prince Jaime won't be pleased."

"Prince Jaime also gave up command of the Wolf's Watch long ago," he replied. They hadn't stopped touching each other in some way ever since their escape, arms clutching each other's bodies, hands gripping hands even as they met with Daenerys and issued their frantic orders. "Besides, close as they may have been, Jaime Lannister's no fool, he knows his brother got off easy, after what he tried to do."

Both of them could appreciate the irony in his words, speaking of the one rare Kingslayer who'd survived to become a Prince years later.

"It won't be easy, but we'll manage." She thought again of Jon and Renly. Whom else had Tyrion been about to name? "We'll manage everything. Remember what Lord Benjen confessed to us before he died?" Edric nodded. "We'll confront Jaime Lannister with the truth of it, if it comes to that, see whom he loves more, a brother, or his sister and two children, much less if he'd wish to hold onto any hope of a royal marriage for Tytos."

Walking around the Half Man's body, she sat back down on the chair she'd been resting upon when Tyrion had approached her in the first place. Two goblets of wine still sat stoically against the precipice, and Sansa wondered whether the Red Priestess's gift of foresight had been a warning for her, to save her life, or a curse to remind her of the tragedies, preordained by whatever God or Gods it were, that she remained helpless to prevent. It was only now when Edric saw them, studying the two glasses curiously, setting such a peaceful scene above the violence they foretold.

"Hand me that one," Sansa said to him, pointing, "the one closer to your hand."

He gave her the glass she'd seen Tyrion drink out of, and Sansa took a long sip of the potion, now too warm for her taste, saving some for her husband as she handed it back to him.

"Are you sure?"

"Don't worry, this one's safe." The Queen nodded towards the poisoned jug Tyrion had poured her glass out of. "I wouldn't trust that one though."

With one furious motion Edric finished the concoction and collapsed beside her. He'd assured her that his assailants had done him no damage, and though Sansa could trust they hadn't wounded him seriously, she could see small nicks and cuts upon his skin. She'd make all his wounds better, she make everything better for their family soon.

"I feel like I dreamed this." Her husband regarded her words curiously. It wasn't the truth, but not entirely a lie either. "I feel like I can, I _should_ be able to dream everything."

Edric frowned. "Are you sure there wasn't anything in the wine?"

"I dream of the Godswood sometimes," Sansa continued. She did not mean to ignore him, it was just that when she spoke now, it felt almost as if she'd been made captive inside her own mind, her voice a trance and, by holding Edric in her arms, he could be allowed passage alongside her in this strange world. "I dream of ravens flying through the air, and...eyes, eyes everywhere."

This was the truth, actually. She remembered it now, all the nights when'd she'd awoken, vowing to remember those strange visions, and all the early mornings when she'd awoken, failing to cling on to what valuable treasures she'd just lost to faded memories.

There was nothing for Edric to say, so she continued. "I feel like, if I close my eyes, and concentrate, I can see everything. Tyrion's betrayal, Baelor's...I could have seen it, I _should_ have seen it. _Any_ other enemy of ours, or Minisa's...they're out there, I know it, just beyond the tips of my fingers. And if my fingers had eyes...I'd know it, I'd see it all...I'd cross each and every name off like I did before the Red Council. Baelor, where he is now, who he's spoken with, who's protecting him."

With luck there would not be another long war, just a handful more executions for her to dole out, even if it were to include kinslaying on her part. Out beyond the Bay lay the Narrow Sea, and the cities of the east a dying man had just cited to her. She'd often wondered how many enemies she had out there as well, decades old scores which remained for her to settle...princes and magistrates and wealthy merchants who'd hosted Rhaegar, supported him, funded him, complicit in all the murders and atrocities he'd wrought. After their last failure, how many of them had finally found their next champion in her son?

The Godswoods, the old man inside the tree, that was the key to it all, Sansa somehow knew.

The trance broke, but when Sansa looked back into her husband's eyes, she saw not dubiousness nor doubt, but absolute faithfulness and trust.

"Sleep on it," he said with a faint smile, his head heavy and faint against her shoulder, "we'll be able to think clearly about this tomorrow."

"Yes, sleep," she mumbled, as they rose together and stepped around the dead man, falling into their beds still covered in sweat and blood. The Queen would sleep, but this time she knew well enough to keep her eyes wide open inside her dreams.


	43. Epilogue II-B: Long May She Reign

**Sansa - Year 326**

She was dying, finally. There were many other times before when she should have died, when she would have wished it upon herself, but every year lived gave her more reasons to _need_ to continue living.

Her husband lay by her side, choking on his blood, his arms clutched tightly around her waist. Many times before she'd think this the only way she'd choose to properly die, yet in this moment she could only worry about what they were leaving behind.

On the balcony within their arms' grasp was the intruder, the traitor, the stranger, who lay already dead. She'd curse him, except she found she lacked the breath in her lungs, in her soul, to curse anyone any longer.

The pain was bad. Was it the worst she'd ever felt, Sansa could not remember now. Her eyes were closed, though she could still feel the moon's bright light shimmering against her bloody eyelids. She kept them closed, because she could not bear to see Edric die, and wondered if he felt the same way. She'd be thankful for the good years they had together, but it wasn't enough because she wanted more, she'd _always_ want more, that was her right as Queen, so in her dying moments, Sansa of House Stark, First of Her Name, fought her last battle, clenching teeth to keep her mind fixed upon gratitude for what she'd had and what she'd accomplished, rather than rage at what had been so wrongfully denied to her.

What came next, she wondered. Would she and Edric walk into the next world hand in hand together, who would stand at that threshold to greet them? Trystane? Her father, her mother, her grandpapa, her brothers, how would they see her, what would they think of the two of them, the complicated and blood soaked legacies they'd leave behind in this world? Or would it be truly the hells they deserved see next, the specters of all their vanquished enemies awaiting them for their ultimate triumph at long last? She would prefer not to dwell upon such thoughts in her final moments, except it was more pleasant than considering what lay ahead in the world they were leaving behind, the trials and tribulations their daughters would have to survive, because of their failures, not through one reign, but of one night spent unguarded.

Perhaps this was their punishment, to not _know, _to leave this world ignorant of the ultimate happiness or safety of their daughters, the security of their legacies...one last twist of fate beyond the control of even the most powerful of sovereigns. Yet her father had died the same way, she imagined, and Eddard Stark was the _best_ of men, who would never deserve such a cruel dying fate, so perhaps the ultimate justice was merely a flip of the coin after all. Regardless, the Queen decided that she would consign her soul and rest easy, because, at long last, she'd run out of choices.

* * *

**Tyrion - Year 321**

"Does it live up to your expectations, my good man?" The aged Davos Seaworth waved his hands across the endless vines dotting the temperate valley, one of many dozen similar yards on the Arbor, this magical island of sweet wines and a warm winter's sun and mindlessly cruel massacres.

"It does, it really does." The wine was exquisite, of course, but Tyrion did not doubt this, nor was wine the sole reason he'd traveled so far down the southern extremes of the continent. Not the company of the Queen's former Hand either, pleasant as the old man was, far exceeding what he'd expected of a smuggler who'd once served the oh so colorful Stannis Baratheon.

"Never had much appreciation for the stuff myself," Davos grumbled next to him, as they walked slowly side by side through the endless rows of unplucked grapes. "Drank any swill we were lucky to get our hands on, really...old pirate friend told me he'd have his men piss into a jar, keep it under decks for ten years, pop a slice of apple or cherry into the jugs afterwards, and you couldn't even tell the difference."

He nearly choked at such an awful notion. "I think," he began slowly, wiping the wine soaked spit from his graying beard, "that your old pirate friend was quite full of it. I can only _hope_ that's the case."

"I don't doubt it," the Onion Hand chuckled fondly, no doubt lost in yet another distant memory, "because the alternative would be too horrifying to imagine, is that right?" Tyrion nodded. "Or maybe he was just mad. Both, I think in his case."

Was that what aging meant, living in the past, forever searching for a distant happy memory so as to forget the current shit present? What if one had few happy memories to draw upon, meaningful ones at least...a loving wife, rather of whores of varying quality between Lannisport, King's Landing, and Mole's Town, headaches induced by children beloved, rather than blank, bleak memories of the night before?

Though Tyrion had only himself to blame in choosing not to live the kind of life he envied now as he approached the threshold of his old age. There'd been talk of marriage, before the exile had been imposed upon him, with a Bracken girl, or a younger Hightower maiden. Ironically, he'd met several of the women he may have married, after they themselves had been exiled into the barren makeshift villages in the Gift, so he'd gotten to known them, a few better than the others. None of the women were all that interesting, really, if compared to the rarely clever whore, though Tyrion could allow them the charity that it was far more difficult to play the vivacious and clever companion after their thousand year old families and names had been smothered into dust by the Queen who sat in King's Landing.

They reached the top of the hill where the castle once belonging to House Redwyne stood. On the side from whence they came, the vineyard, the other, a bustling village, where the men and women would travel a small road surrounding the hill to pick the grapes come the harvest. The town looked no different than most, bearing little traces on the outside of what had occurred years before, though Tyrion did not doubt that its inhabitants remembered differently.

"I'll have them send barrels north," Davos muttered beside him. "To King's Landing, I presume?"

It was what they all wondered of him, whether he'd make his belated return to Queen Sansa's service. It was what they all assumed too, that he _would_ return one day, though the Targaryen Princess had taken old Davos's place as Hand, surely a small chair could be found for a small man. He'd considered the prospect many times actually, but beautiful the Queen may be, Tyrion had realized, beholding her all through the day of the Red Council, that it _hurt_ him, in the very literal sense of the word that it caused him actual pain, to gaze into her cold eyes, and wonder at what had been lost, at what could have been.

"Winterfell's more like it," he mused, ignoring the raised eyebrow. "Write on the barrel, for the purposes of the Imp's delight." A joke known to no one but himself, and Jaime, had he told his brother of that naive and ancient wish yet?

Paxter Redwyne had not survived long enough to die at Trystanen, having been executed along with the Hightowers when the little girl he'd once mentored took Oldtown with a band of pirates at her back. His son Horas enjoyed a much better bout of luck at first. Having been kept in the dungeons in the Hightower, his jailers simply forgot his pardon and thus he remained put whilst the rest of his peers were slaughtered during the Red Queen's bloody Council. Then, having pardoned him, Sansa Stark could not go back on her word upon discovering the oversight, so Paxter's boy returned to the island as its lord, for some good years.

Tyrion chose to spend the previous night in the village, on the believable enough premise that he wished to whet his appetites in the tavern, and so he did, except he asked and listened more than he drank, a rarity indeed. Like the old Davos, the young Horas Redwyne was well beloved, he bore more gratitude for surviving the war than rage towards defeat and loss, and deprived of his family's ships, he'd nevertheless happily set to ruling his peaceful island in peace and reaping the fruit of his fruits. There'd been talk, before the massacre, even of a marriage with the young Lady Myrcella, thus restoring some semblance or veneer of old traditions to the southernmost reaches of the Reach.

The problem had been the band of Wolf's Wardens sent onto the island, for the ostensible purpose of keeping an eye on the ruling lords, protecting the smallfolk from their worst excesses. In many places this proved true, Tyrion had heard, and observed firsthand by now, but not within this beautiful haven. The rot came, and slowly a man named Karl Tanner, a former cutthroat and scoundrel from Flea Bottom, took control of the former exiles upon the desolated island. Rather than protect the people, he instead extorted them and robbed them of what little they had, all while constantly lobbing threats towards Lord Horas, claiming that he knew Tywin Lannister personally, that he could personally exhort the Queen's Hand to have the young lord executed if he didn't pay him the share of gold the villain believed he deserved.

Lord Horas dutifully wrote to Prince Tywin and the Queen, and his father had indeed written back the man Tanner, instructing him to quit his nonsense and ordering him to report to King's Landing, where he'd presumably lose his head. Predictably enough, rather than oblige in his own doom, Tanner instigated instead both his men and enough gullible villagers rough around the edges to revolt, spreading rumors that Horas Redwyne was planning a mass massacre of the commoners and wardens alike. The castle, lightly guarded by its naive young lord, was taken after some bloodshed, and more followed, with all its inhabitants down to innocent servants and maids raped and slaughtered. Then Karl Tanner began his brief rule of the island, turning it into his own fiefdom for a moon, which Tyrion had first recalled hearing of when they'd sent Dornish Reds to Castle Black instead of his usual barrel of Arbor wine which came twice a year.

Tanner's reign as the would be King of the Arbor did not last long, put down quickly by a fleet of the Queen's Oldtown banners. There was more slaughter, from the battle, and from the bloodlust taken out on the long suffering villagers. The surviving men of the Watch, Tanner among them, were taken back to King's Landing, where Tyrion had been assured that his late father delivered the most grisly justice upon the admittedly deserving traitors, and order was restored to the Arbor in the form of the kindly though firm Davos Seaworth, then ships full with wine resumed their procession onto the mainland as if the soil from whence it came from had never been stained by the blood of innocents, highborn and lowborn alike.

"Ah son, you've met Prince Tyrion, haven't you?"

"Not a Prince, actually..."

"Half Man," the heir to the Arbor replied curtly.

"Lord Matthos."

Davos Seaworth's son possessed little of his father's charm, and Tyrion was not the only person who saw that. Many of the villagers he'd talked to whispered to him, after a dozen helpings of wine, of course, that the young man reminded them of their late oppressor. Not that Tyrion believed the young man to be particularly venal or vicious, he was still in many ways his father's son...but something about Matthos Seaworth left an unsettled feeling in his stomach. It wasn't that his demeanor was particularly unfriendly, Kendron Stark had been far from the merry sort, harmless as the Lord of Winterfell was...but Tyrion had a feeling that if this young lordling would never instigate a massacre as Tanner would on his own, he would gladly murder all the remaining children who survived that brief war were it ordered by someone he believed in...and after knowing him for a day, it was quite obvious that there was no one Matthos Seaworth believed in more than his Queen, Sansa I Stark.

"Come," Davos beckoned happily, the man's cheer so rudely interrupting his own morose thoughts. "They have the plumpest of geese in this island, I've never seen the likes of it, and they've assured me they've picked out the finest for the great Prince Tywin's son..."

He'd enjoy this, Tyrion decided, he'd eat, and drink, and feast as if he were a Prince, because of what was to come, because of the road he was perilously close to choosing. The Arbor had suffered the worst of it, but its massacres were far from the only ones inflicted by the peace his father had imposed upon the land with Queen Sansa. There'd been smaller feuds between wardens and lords which inevitably spilled over to the smallfolk, fewer rogues armed with swords and a seal of approval from the Crown, until they'd already committed their crimes, and while justice usually did deliver itself in the form of a final intervention from the reigning Hand at the moment, or occasionally even a Queen in person, or her royal Princess representatives of the Crown's justice, the dead remained dead, and the maimed and scarred did not grow new skin or limbs. And this was _with_ decent, gentle womanly souls ruling the land, so what when the few who held absolute power were many more generations removed from the likes of Eddard the Just?

As he ate, he questioned himself, the paths positioned him that he could pursue. Would it be worth it, the price of more war spawned in a time of peace? Blood only begat more blood, this was true, and the empire built upon the wings of bloody creatures as the dragons had never been perfectly harmonious in the best of times, much less the ages which came before. He imagined standing in the boots of his ancestor, Loren I Lannister, the Last King of the Rock, just before the fires consumed his body and every existence he had known. The world had always been shit regardless of dynasty or dynasties, but perhaps it was Loren the Last who'd gotten the last laugh, because the Mad King proved at long last that the failure of one world did not mean that which would replace it was destined to endure. Or should endure, for the matter.

* * *

**Edric - Year 326**

His body strained to make it up the final steps of the tower. It had been so many years since the Red Council, when he'd engaged in his last real fight. There were sparring sessions and the such, and tourneys where he'd compete with some success, though he'd never won because singular duels, the actual _fighting_ part of fighting, had never been where he'd excelled the most. The ruffians who'd just accosted him had given him a decent contest, he would have enjoyed better this lethal dash from his old life, when he'd fought for his life in the chaos of battle, if it weren't for the fact that his wife lay likely in graver danger than he.

Their chambers for the night was empty, though a breeze blew upon the faded blinds from the outside, beyond which he saw a small silhouette of a man holding a dagger. Standing shoulders slumped over the body of the Queen, Tyrion Lannister did not turn at his approach, surely loud enough for the man to hear since Edric was not aiming at discretion just now. Blood dripped down the dwarf's knife, blood seeped through Sansa's gown by her chest, and Edric did not hesitate a second in swinging all of Ice's weight down through the Half Man's shape, slicing him cleanly from his shoulders down towards his opposite hip, nearly cleaving the dwarf in half.

"Sansa!"

Her eyes fluttered in his direction. She was still alive, barely so. His first instinct was to lift her body, find help from the maesters who remained in the castle, but Edric gasped when lifting her revealed the deep pool of blood already lying beneath her back.

"Don't," she whispered to him. "It's too late, I know it."

"They can help you," he cried urgently, though he obediently dropped her body gently back onto the floor anyway, because of all that blood, it all came from Sansa, he couldn't bear to see it. "They can still save you!."

"They can't," she said, and he knew she knew the truth he continued to deny. "There's no need in trying, I'm just glad you're here. Stay with me, Edric."

He nodded desperately, and saw that her fingers still clutched tightly a knife of her own. It proved no consolation to him, that she'd fought to the end.

"I got him too," she said, mustering what could very well be the last smile of her life. "It wasn't enough, but I got him too. We killed him together." Her face was so pale, so terrifyingly pale, and her lips quivered as she spoke, the only weakness she'd allow to the agonizing pain surely flowing through her body.

Her wound wasn't against her heart, Edric could tell now, but lower, by the side of her stomach. It was taking her a long time to die, yet could he feel grateful, that she'd lasted for him to see, to _hear_ her voice, if tortured, one last time? Slowly he led his hand towards her hand which held the dagger, and pried it from his wife's weak, loosening fingers. She caught him staring at the blade, now positioned snugly upon his palm.

"The glass of wine closer to you," her voice ached desperately. "It's poisoned, hand it to me."

Wordlessly he obliged her, though she'd misunderstood his intentions with the knife. There was no question that he could have ever been able to press it against and through his wife's skin, even if it would have shortened her suffering. Taking the goblet, eternal thankful for their last reprieve, Edric knelt back down, but immediately brought the chalice up to his lips first.

"Don't," she nearly screamed this time, finally knowing what he'd meant to do before. "You _have _to live. You have to fight on for Min, for Lyarra, you have one last war left in you, Edric."

"I don't," he said. He was crying now, with only his need to tell her holding him back from fully bawling, breaking down completely. "I can't, Sansa. I can't live without you. I love our girls...but I can't stare into their eyes, and know that you're not here, I can't..."

To his surprise, she didn't fight him. Instead, she nodded, her bloodshot eyes peaceful, this act of bestowing permission for his weakness her last as Queen. "I understand."

_I can't be strong. You know this...and you don't hate me for it._

He took a sip of the wine, its sweet richness hiding the poison within, before pouring delicately the remaining drops into her draining lips.

_Because I'm the creature you made me, that we created together. You know that too._

Would he have been relieved upon the fields of Oxcross, if he'd known that had been the last battle he'd ever have to fight? Was there relief now in his heart, that he wouldn't have to see through yet another war, even one fought for the inheritance of his beloved Minisa, for the very survival of little Lyarra, always delicate and precious in his heart?

_I'm a coward. I've always been a coward, and I'll die one._

Then he took a deep breath, and stabbed the knife into his body, by his chest. They'd both die, but if Sansa had to die in pain, then so would he, he did not deserve anything better. Sansa's eyes widened upon witnessing his last act, then he collapsed onto her, without nothing else left in him, no purpose, except to hold his wife tightly in their last moments.

_Forgive me, Minisa. But you're stronger than me, I know you can get through this, I know you'll win without us._

* * *

**Minisa - Year 327**

The rich desert air cleansed her breath. It may even invigorate her soul, the Queen could only hope at. She needed it. Her parents had been murdered, betrayed, yet she'd had not a moment to mourn, to gaze upon their faces one last time, to bury them, see that their bones returned north to the lands of their ancestors. But no, nothing went north, not yet, she'd ordered that, because north was where her enemy was, her half brother, so their remains stayed at Casterly Rock, and would until this war finished itself.

_"I'm not ready."_

_What had she expected her father to tell her? Outside a crowd awaited, her mother, all her royal councilors, hundreds of lords and ladies, hundreds more Wardens of the Watch, all standing ready to see her, judge her, decide in their hearts whether or not she would stand worthy enough to sit as their Queen one day._

_"You're readier than your mother was at first."_

_His words were true, but not all that helpful. Her mother had not been ready, and she'd suffered for it. Minisa did not want to suffer, for the sake of whom she'd been born to. The thousands awaiting her would mock her for the thought, they'd lie and kill and rape just to be who she was, to receive the honours about to be bestowed to her this day, her seventeenth name day, the first Princess of Trystanen, a new title for the heirs of the newest dynasty of the land. She would not trade it either, she would not give away her birthright, because having seen so much of the realm, she knew better than most what it meant to not be special, to not have been chosen, to be common, given little choice in fates, to always suffer for the sins of others._

_"I'm not good at anything." Time seemed to stand still. Her eyes remained on Lord Commander Balon, he was the one to give her the signal, to walk forward onto the open balcony overlooking the city from the steps of Queen Catelyn's Sept, built on the ruins of the building whom her half brother had been named after, a smaller and more modest temple than before, they'd always told her. "I can barely follow along all the Small Council meetings, I can't walk straight when wearing armor, much less ride a horse, lead a war...hells, I can't even beat Barbs Poole in a duel, or play the harp or lute half as good as..."_

_"You weren't meant to be a fighter," her father whispered to her kindly, squeezing her shoulder. "You weren't meant to be a musician. You're meant to be you, no one else."_

The wind breezed through her hair. They blew cool at night here, even during summer, she'd heard. Above them glimmered a full moon, and she recalled that night when she'd slept in a small camp, listening to the ever steady currents of the Blackwater, not knowing that her world was to be turned upside down before the sun rose the following morning.

_I'm meant to be me. But what does that really mean? A Queen? A warrior? A fighter, a leader in war?_

Immediately they'd been on the alert, continuing to make haste for Trystanen. Daenerys caught up to their procession before their arrival, and they'd conferred, four princesses of the realm, counting Lyarra and her aunt Arya, planning for their collective survival together.

_"Trystanen won't hold," her aunt had decided prudently. "The walls aren't even half built yet."_

_"Casterly Rock is closest," Minisa added at the time. "Or we could return to King's Landing."_

_"Walls only give us safety for a siege," Daenerys then confided, she'd remain her Hand, because who else was there? "You're the Queen of Seven Kingdoms now, Your Grace, not just one castle. Don't let your reign be swallowed by mere walls either."_

_"What do you suggest?" It was clear the Targaryen Princess had an idea in mind. Whether she could or should trust her, Baelor's aunt, that was the harsh but necessary question. After all, she had been with Tyrion and her parents in the Red Keep the night it'd happened, hadn't she?_

_"Lyonel can shore up the Westerlands," Daenerys said. She looked to Arya. "Your aunt can help. We'll send letters to Dragonstone. If the Kingslayer declares for you, then he can lead much of our armies."_

_"We'll need as many banners as we can muster," Arya seemed to agree. "Lord Eddison will rally all the Wolf's Watch, see to it that the Gold Road remains ours for the duration of the war."_

_"The key's the south then," Minisa replied, realizing the intent of her elders. Daenerys nodded in agreement, then looked to her Aunt Jeyne and Uncle Tommen. _

_"Highgarden and Oldtown have answered to Houses Stark and Poole for the last one and twenty years," her new Hand decreed, "as have all the Reach. We'll see how just how enduring their fealty is, but having the Queen present would help things greatly."_

So they'd ridden first to Highgarden, where they heard news of the Knights of the Vale declaring for Baelor II Stark, or so her half brother called himself now. They would need a larger army, which precipitated their ride to Oldtown, where she'd stood before a crowd of thousands at the steps atop the Starry Sept, and read with all her heart the words Daenerys had helped her write. Now they'd arrived to Dorne, where her mother's rebellion against the last dragon first began, where her cousin and rival claimant Prince Joffrey Martell was rallying what he promised would be ten thousand Dornishmen for the war to come.

"Do you think we can trust him," she asked Daenerys, who joined her in that quiet cove under the walls of Starfall, where an army comprised of sons who'd fought for her mother a generation before were already gathering.

"I hear whispers the Prince Joffrey is eager to prove his worth to his Queen," the purple eyed Princess replied to her with a knowing smirk, "his most _unmarried_ Queen." Age had not dimmed the beauty of this last living dragon, her long and wavy silver hair flying gracefully in the wind, far more gracefully than her own hair ever would, Minisa thought.

"Yes, I'm sure all his mistresses would love that," she grumbled, "Tyene Sand first among them." The Sand Snakes were the last enemy she needed to make. "What of Lord Lyonel's love for my fair hand in marriage?"

"Or Tytos Lannister's," Daenerys replied indifferently. "Brynden Stark's, Renly Tarth's, Matthos Seaworth's, Willem Tully's..."

"Promise them all that they have a chance, isn't that right," she asked, "so long as they fight by our side?"

Then she'd run out of choices, except the choices who'd survive the war with her. Would marry the man who'd proven most useful to her, or a man she'd come to love, if she might feel it for any of them? _Both_, if she could prove as lucky as her mother had been, but Minisa somehow doubted that fortune could strike so similarly again. But that was what they were hoping for, weren't they, else why try and start this war here in Starfall anew?

Suddenly she recalled the older woman's last words. "Willem Tully, he declared for me?"

"The war in the Riverlands will be fierce," came the answer. "Brother against brother, sons against father." They'd been most disappointed, outraged even, when first hearing of Walder Tully, the Lord of Riverrun and the eldest of Lord Edmure's surviving sons, declaring for Baelor. _"Family, Duty, Honor,"_ she'd spat contemptuously, except Baelor had the exact same Tully blood as she had, didn't he?

"The war will be fierce everywhere," the Queen said with more ferocity than her own heart could withstand. "I heard there's already small battles in the north, by the Long Lake."

It was said that her brother had gained the support of several Hightower widows and daughters, settled in the Gift years before. One of them had seduced the old Littlejon, who along with the Glovers had beat back a Karstark attack, so as to carry the usurper further south towards Moat Cailin. There were whispers that their small army would try and skip Winterfell altogether, take to the sea straight for their new allies in the Vale. There were worse whispers that Kendron Stark would hesitate to act even if the usurper marched his banners below his very walls, that he'd accompany him all the way through the Neck and onto the Trident, though Minisa doubted the worst rumors, if only because she knew her uncle Kendron was not the kind to march with any sort of army.

No war was clean, not even her mother's wars. Daenerys had told her on their travels through the Reach and now to Dorne what her parents never could admit to her, that though they'd tried their best, there had still been the occasional rapine and slaughter of innocent smallfolk inflicted by their own men. Much less than most other armies through history, the elder Princess assured Minisa, and their interlopers receiving more punishment and justice than prior wars, but she did not need these harsh truths told her, to know the truth, because she'd known it long before already.

There were these stories they'd tell her, now, before, the rest of her life, and then there was what she'd seen through the villages she'd traveled to, the blinded eyes of an old man, who'd been infirm even during the War of Ice and Fire, who'd nevertheless been maimed and crippled by men who fought for her mother, for her own unborn claims she'd champion with iron and blood now. Dornish looking bastards her own age roaming the villages of the Reach and Westerlands, had all their mothers been willing? And could she really endure through more of such terrible ordeals, or force so many more to endure them on her behalf? Was she as strong as her mother, her father? Did strength have anything to do with it even, if fortune, or luck, or the will of the Gods, whatever they'd call it, turned their backs on her?

"You'll be strong enough to win this war, Your Grace," Daenerys tried assuring her, as if reading her mind.

She looked down into the smaller woman's intense eyes, and tried to seek what confidence she lacked through them. "I'll only be strong with allies like you by my side." An absurd thought came to her mind. "It'd be much easier if we had dragons though."

Daenerys laughed lightly. "Yes it would, wouldn't it?" But then the demeanor of the living and breathing dragon beside her turned more serious. "Your parents didn't have any dragons. Yet they conquered well enough anyway."

"They did," the Queen whispered uncertainly at the moon. _But am I them? I'm only one woman, can I ever match the both of them?_

The night was growing late, but Minisa felt reluctant to return back to the safe confines of her dead father's castle. Instinctively she walked towards the far hills, away from the last outlying tents, to where she could see individual trees and rocks outlined upon uneven ridges under the moonlight.

"You miss them, don't you?"

"I do," she admitted. She hadn't allowed herself to cry yet, because she hadn't one moment alone since that horrible night, knowing the dread and sorrow would only get worse by the day, because the war had not even begun. Her side had the advantage of numbers, for now, but the disadvantage of shadowy, uncertain knives thrust at her from behind wherever they rode, because of the enemies her mother had made, and Baelor's promises to make redress for them. "I can't...I don't go a minute without thinking of them. Dying, in pain, what it was like, knowing they'd work so hard, only to be betrayed by someone they thought they could trust."

"They'd be proud of you," she whispered to her, "how far you've traveled already. They were always so proud of you."

Shadows crept through the distant dry hills, as if marking the movement of the full moon through the night's sky.

"She told me once," Daenerys continued by her side, similarly mesmerized by the wilderness beyond, "their happiest days were spent in the hills here, when Her Grace...when Sansa, and your father, rode day after day, night after night, preparing for the war to come. They'd been through much, and they had a long way still to go...yet here they fell in love anyway."

They were always together, those memories she could at least treasure through this horrible war, and Minisa could only be thankful that they'd died together.

"I hope wherever they are," she whispered slowly into the night, "they're happy...that they don't have to worry about me."

Her mother fervently and secretly always hated the Faith. Her father kept quiet on such matters, but Minisa had suspected that he would have feared the Gods of the Seven more than he worshiped them. As to herself, Minisa did not know, because nearly _everyone_ she knew _did_ believe...except for the smartest and well-read of them, including the High Septon himself...and because how could her mother, the smartest woman she'd ever known, or would ever know, be wrong on such an important matter?

As they returned to Starfall, Minisa peered back behind her shoulder, and saw that the shadows she'd glimpsed minutes earlier had become clearer to her eyes, even though they stood more distant now than before. By a small grove of trees she saw two horses, the riders upon them a woman with long red hair sitting tall and steadily beside a young and shy looking man with a long golden mane, and for a moment they glowed together brighter than the moon above. Her parents appeared in this fleeting, haunting moment younger, more vibrant than she'd ever remembered or recalled of them. Then beside her mother, opposite her father's side, appeared a dimmer shadow, similarly young, adorned in ornate, golden robes, and even through the faded shadows of his skin Minisa could tell he was truly Rhoynar through every inch of his dark complexion.

_Is that the Prince Trystane,_ wondered the former Princess of Trystanen, _mother's first love,_ and she knew it, without knowing it. Under the comforting spell of their presences, for the first time in many moons Queen Minisa of the House Stark, First of Her Name, did not worry about her own life, and the war which was to come, because there was no worry or concern in the faces of the three ghosts appraising her, just a quiet contentment and confidence.

_Ride free, _she bade them in her mind. _ I'll make you proud, mama. I'll make you all proud, I'll see to it that you can both rest happy, like you once were, like you are before me._


End file.
